


Mr. Horrible

by algonquinrt (d0t)



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Conspiracy Theories, Drag Queens, M/M, crazy fish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:37:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 129,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d0t/pseuds/algonquinrt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you're here, you know the drill. Boy meets girl and crack ensues. Thanks, fandom. It's been a lovely week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's a Bench

That motherfucker left me. Stranded.

The nice parts of having a gay best friend mean that you always have someone who will be honest with you about what you were wearing and whether the new hairstyle looks like shit. Oh, and cuddling without having to put out first. The bad parts, however, mean that if a pretty boy comes waltzing through the museum, odds are he is taking off without so much as a by your fucking leave.

I have no money.

If he had to leave me to go chase tail, the least he could have done was give me bus fare. Or something. Now I'm stuck here. My cell is dead--again--the victim of an owner who is too lazy/forgetful/stupid (choose one) to charge it. Once upon a time, weren't there pay phones? Didn't people use coins for them? I could probably bum a few coins and call Alice that way, but pay phones appear to have become extinct.

I'm stuck. And I swear this time I'm going to kill him.

If I have any luck at all, James will be satisfied with a quickie blow job and then remember that I'm here and stuck and come back for me. Of course, I know that I have no luck at all, which is why I was at a fucking art gallery on a Saturday afternoon with James in the first place instead of out getting laid or going to the movies or having an all-day sex marathon (sexathon? fuckathon? orgasmathon? Orgasmathon. I like that idea.) of my own.

I'm not helping him tonight.

By god, if James comes back and expects me to help him dress for his stupid fucking drag show later, I'm putting my foot up his ass. And that might be after I help him him with his tuck just for the extra added discomfort. Pisser. I am not helping him tonight. He can do the show his damn self without me helping with his eyelashes or combing out his wigs or waxing his fucking eyebrows. I'm taking a break from all the catty, gossipy queens and the drama and the goddamn bra-stuffing. Ugh. And if James makes me loan him my bra one more time because he forgot his for the show I'm going to kill him. I don't care if the club is all gay men and straight tourists who couldn't give a rat's ass about my tits. I refuse. I pay good money for all the stuffing I can buy. He can buy his own.

And who on Earth uses Victoria Secretion as a drag name anyway? So déclassé. He needs to change that shit if he wants better tips. And to do that pageant. Which I know he's going to ask me to dress him for.

I'm refusing. I'm done with this shit. I'm tired of being his hag. I just want a life.

I head out the front doors, plop myself on the bench that I hope is actually a bench and not yet another piece of art I'm not supposed to touch, and open my purse/lunch box. There's a damn good reason to carry a Star Wars lunch box as a purse: you can bring a sandwich along for those times when your fucking Mary abandons you at the art gallery to get laid. I'm always planning like that. Actually, maybe I just get left behind an awful lot and I hate being hungry. Too bad I didn't stick a Snickers in here or something.

I decide on a happy little squiggle before I eat, rubbing my ass all over the art/bench before digging into the fabulous goat cheese-sprouts-balsamic-vinegar-onion-bagel-sandwich (uh, no wonder I don't get laid eating this?). Fucker better be back before it's time for dessert because I did not, in fact, pack a fucking candy bar. And I'm running low on caffeine.

*E*

She is the only thing I notice in the entire damn gallery. When she first got there, she was with a tall, handsome man wearing his hair in a thick blonde ponytail. He looked like he belonged in a gallery: an artist. I look like a hungover frat boy out for a day of culture, still having no idea why my mother dragged me along to this exhibit. It is O'Keeffe; everything looks like a dick or a vagina. Talk about an obvious Freudian subtext.

Most of the people wandering the gallery are dressed like my mother: stuffy slacks and blouses, or dress pants and button-downs for the men. It's a fucking shame that art in this country is reduced to a must-be- seen scene for the idle rich and upper middle class who aspire to be the idle rich. It's fucking embarrassing to have your last name be one of those up on the wall as some Platinum-Star-on-Your-Forehead-for- Giving-Us-Money homage. The girl most assuredly does not have parents with their names on the wall.

She is here with the ponytailed man and yet she isn't. Most people go through the gallery like my mother and I are : a slow and steady walk, not stopping too long or rushing past too fast at any single piece of artwork. I imagine if there is a god anywhere, he, she, or it thinks we look like fucking ants in an ant farm in our single line maintaining the same pace. Then you see her, criss-crossing across the gallery, bumping in and out of the line and wrecking the traffic pattern.

I am surprised a Muffy or a Janet or a Hildegard hasn't called for security to escort her out.

She passes by the vagina flowers as if they aren't there, but creates such a traffic jam at one of the desert paintings that the ant line re-routes around her. The patrons of the arts skip the entire painting because a silly girl would have ruined the momentum of the ever-trudging line. I stifle a chuckle as I think of that Pixar film with the ants where they start yelling when a gap appears in the line. My mother elbows me and gives me that “shut the hell up in public” look. I roll my eyes, but continue pretending to be an art- appreciating insect.

After a while, I realize she is still flitting back and forth across the gallery fucking with the ants, but the ponytailed man is nowhere to be seen. I'm not sure that she noticed at first, so caught up was she in the art she found worth looking at, but I can tell when she realizes he either isn't there, or hasn't returned as expected. Her arms cross in front of her chest, and her eyebrows furrow together, and her teeth bite into her lower lip so hard I half-expect her to start bleeding all over the place. Until she crosses her arms, I don't notice that she isn't even carrying a purse. Instead, she's carrying a fucking Star Wars X-wing lunch box. Is she for real? People sell that shit on eBay to collectors to put on bookshelves and dust regularly, and she's using it as a purse.

She must have come to some decision then, because I watch her huff and then stalk off toward the exit, lunch box swinging at her side. It is at this very moment when I watch the glass inner doors swing shut behind her that I come to my own decision. I leave the ants—and my mother—and follow her.

#

She hasn't gone far. I see her sitting on a bench donated by some other patron who wanted their name on a plaque on a bench instead of a plaque on a wall. She is doing the weirdest dance-type thing I've ever seen, shaking her ass all over the seat like she was polishing it for the gallery. She sets the lunch box/purse down next to her and opens it, and I watch for her to reach for a cell phone to call the ponytailed friend but she doesn't. No, she pulls out a motherfucking sandwich and starts eating it. A sandwich. In a metal lunch box. At the gallery.

There is no way I am going to be able to hold it back, so I throw my head back and laugh my ass off, the sound echoing off the brick buildings surrounding the gallery. I probably should care that she can hear me, but I really don't mind. I have to talk to her.

*B*

Shit. Busted.

I saw him inside a few minutes ago, the only break in the near-uniform parade of rich old people, rich middle-aged people, and just-plain-rich people looking at the big fucking flowers.

He'd looked bored.

I could tell right away he was there with mommy, following her along, too used to being a lamb to break off from the sheep, no matter how hard his hipster outfit screamed that he wanted to be different. I'd sort of wanted to tell him that he could dress just like the rest of them, and really being different was all in how you looked at things, not in how you dressed, but I wasn't entirely sure he would be receptive to that, seeing as he was so afraid of mommy he wouldn't even change his pace in the line. I could tell, watching him when I wasn't looking at a painting, when he liked something, because his eyes would light up. And when he was bored, he'd sort of pinch the bridge of his nose like he was Samantha on Bewitched and trying hard not to wiggle his nose and wish all these stuck-up motherfuckers away so he could move right along past it.

Still, he was out here now, and I knew his place in the Bataan Death March of art appreciation couldn't have reached the end of the exhibit, so I was going to have to give him credit for trying. I know he can see me looking at him, but he's too afraid to just come on over and say hello and maybe rub his ass all over this art/bench. Maybe it's his granny's name on the plaque behind me. Shit, that would be hilarious, and almost worth getting left behind today.

I decide to give him a break today. Maybe walking out here was his first tiny baby step, and he's afraid to toddle across the room because he doesn't want to end up on his ass.

“Hey! Rich kid! You like goat cheese?”

He's looking confused. Jesus Tapdancing Christ, like there was anyone else under the age of fifty around here? Just me, him--well, James was off fucking some pretty boy's mouth right now in all likelihood--so just me and him. He and I. Shit, I can't ever remember. Just two young people. What was I saying?

Oh, right. I'm inviting him to share my sandwich and he's almost here now. “What did you ask?”

“I asked if you liked goat cheese. I'm willing to share my fucking fantabulous sandwich with you on one condition.”

“A condition?” He cocks one eyebrow at me and sort of smiles using one side of his mouth more than the other. How fucking cute is that?

“Well, sort of two conditions. One is that you can help me get a Snickers bar. We can share it, but I totally didn't pack any dessert today.”

“I can manage a candy bar, I think. What's the other condition?” “Rich kid, hello? Not just any candy bar. A Snickers. Packed with peanuts and shit. I might allow you to get me a Snickers Almond which we all know is really just a Mars Bar, but it has to say Snickers.” “Snickers it is,” he agrees. “What's the other condition?”

“I need a way to get home. You can loan me a cell phone or call your driver for me because I know you have one or whatever. I just don't want to sit here all damn day.”

“You have plans?”

Oh my fucking god, he's so adorable. Do I have plans? Yes, I have plans. I have plans to take a fucking nap and maybe read a few more pages of Chaucer because I will finish that shit one of these days. I still feel guilty about cheating and reading those stupid quickie notes freshman year.

“Hmm,” I answer. “I'm not sure. Do you have plans?”

He isn't answering, but instead, turns and heads back into the gallery. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Never fails. He could have at least let me use his phone to call Alice for a ride. I'm not that fucking weird, am I?

I look down. Okay, so maybe the hems of my jeans are a little bit ratty. It's not my fault I have short legs and they drag on the damn pavement. My Chucks are a little bit dirty, but again, not my fault. It totally sucks trying to remember to bring a spare pair of shoes to the fucking laundromat to wash them. My t-shirt for once doesn't have anything vulgar or “untoward” on it. Shit. It's a Kafka shirt. From Prague. That's culture, isn't it? Fucking Kafka, people. And my hoodie is freshly washed. I just did laundry last night. It looks fine and smells fine. Shit, even my hair is pretty generic this month. It's a nice, plain wine color. I didn't highlight it or dye it black with streaks or anything.

Fuck me. James still isn't back. Rich kid is gone. And I'm bored. If my phone was charged, at least I could have gone online or listened to music. As it is, I have nothing to do. And my nap is not going to get fucked with if I have anything to say about it.

*E*

I go back in, ask my mother if she minds me leaving her there with her friend Mindy or Jill or what-the- fuck-ever and make my way back outside to see her, the Crazy Sandwich Girl, asleep on the bench. She's wrapped her arms around her lunch box and is using it as a pillow and is taking a nap. Was I seriously gone that long? The conversation had been so short my mother hadn't even bothered to ask me where I was going.

She's drooling a bit on her sleeve, and I'm wondering if I should wake her up or just sit down next to her. I can't imagine being so damn tired I'd sleep on a bench in front of a gallery, but I have no idea what her circumstances might be. Still, she mentioned candy and a ride, not being tired, so I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that food and transportation are higher priorities. She said she had goat cheese, so I doubt that she's starving or homeless. Even if she looks like she is. But how do I wake her up when I don't even know her name?

I debate any number of ways to wake her, starting with “Hey, you!” and ending with just rolling her onto her back and fucking her on the bench, but I'm pretty sure that this girl would give me a kick in the balls if she even knew I'd thought it, much less attempted it. I decide on the tried-but-true arm shaking, and she responds by grumbling in her sleep and smacking my hand away. I laugh and shake her a bit harder, and she finally rolls to her side, shading her eyes with her hand as she looks at me.

“Oh. Hey, Rich Kid. You're back.” Apparently she'd thought I'd abandoned her.

“Yes, I just had to leave my mother in the capable hands of her ladies who lunch friends. Can I drive you wherever you need to go?”

She smiles then, as if I'm Prince Fucking Charming here on my white steed to whisk her off into the bloody sunset, and sits up.

“Yes, you certainly can. Let's start with the Snickers bar and go from there. Do you feel favorably about coffee in large quantities?” she's asking.

I stand and offer her my hand, a gallant move I've only ever seen in movies and sure as shit never attempted myself. It makes me ecstatic when she accepts it, and we walk off to the stupid silver Volvo my parents bought me for “safety reasons.” I'm sure she's going to make snide comments about it, and I find that I'm looking forward to it. And to having my first Snickers in god only knows how long apparently with large quantities of coffee.


	2. There's Dessert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is dessert.

“You. Drive. A Volvo.”

At least he has the decency to look properly ashamed of this car. Shit, he can't even drive a hybrid and pretend that he cares more about the environment than class status? I'm this close to pulling a Che Guevara on his richie ass right now. A fucking Volvo. He expects me to ride in a fucking Volvo.

“My father bought it for me,” is his only reply. “Well, of course Daddy bought it for you, Rich Kid. I'd hazard a guess that you've never had a job in your  
life. But couldn't you have picked out something a bit more hoi polloi?” “I didn't have a choice.” “Rich Kid! Christ on a pogo stick! You always have a choice. You could have gotten a fucking bus pass.” “Well, do you have a car?”

Shit, he's got me there. I do have a car. It's an '85 Buick Century with tinted windows, white-walls, and a two-tone paint job (where it isn't rusted through) which is currently rotting in the grocery store parking lot across from my apartment. Every so often, Emmett comes over and helps me push it to another spot so that they don't notice and tow my precious Mafia Staff Car before I can afford to have it fixed. So the answer, Rich Kid, is that yes, I have a car, but it doesn't exactly run. Unless you are Fred Fucking Flintstone.

“Sort of. I try to carpool or use public transportation,” I finally answer. “You know, save the environment and shit.”

He smiles that damn lopsided grin and I know that he's onto me. Tragic thing is that when he gives me that fucking smile, I can't even find myself caring that he's onto me.

“See, here's the thing. You want a Snickers. And coffee. To get those things, you need me. And the Volvo. So it's your choice. I guess I could always just spot you bus fare instead.”

Christ on a crutch, he's got me. I know that I'm making all sorts of Mister Fucking Magoo faces as I weigh my options. If anyone I know sees me in this Ode to Greedmobile, I lose massive amounts of cred. On the other hand, if I don't get in, it's back to the bench until James gets off and remembers that I exist. Or taking the bus next to some guy who smells like ass and doesn't wash his clothes. I didn't get a good look at the pretty boy James left with, so I have no clue how well-endowed he might have been. It could be a long while before I can get caffeine if the pretty boy isn't packing. And if I have to wait too long, it's going to get ugly. Even uglier than taking the bus next to ass-smelling guy.

In the end, coffee beats cred hands down every fucking time. I wrench open the door and climb in. Rich Kid laughs and opens his door, and I'm slightly disappointed that he didn't try to pull those to-the-manner-born moves and open my door. Did he figure I'd bite his hand off or does he not see me as worthy? Shit like this bugs me when I know I'm out of my usual league. Like, when you buy a set of silverware? And it has big forks and little forks? I'm all sorts of jazzed about that shit because it means I can go longer before I have to wash dishes. Who the fuck needs two forks for a single meal?

I bet Rich Kid does. I need to even this shit out now.

“Rich Kid, you got a name? I don't need the whole thing... just the shit before 'the Fourth' will be fine by me.”

To his credit, he laughs.

“It's Edward.”

“Edward? Not Ed, or Eddie or Ned or anything?”

“No. Just Edward.”

“The third or the fourth?”

“The second, sort of. I have my father's first name, but not his middle name. So technically, I'm the first.”

“Isn't that illegal among your kind?”

“My kind?”

“You know, the rich folks.” God, could I be any more offensive? Get it together, chica. He's hot. He's giving you a ride. He's going to buy you convenience-store chocolate.

“Do you have something against people with money?”

“Yes. Jealousy.” There. I made nice, right?

“You sound awfully bitter for someone who's only jealous.”

He might be right. Why am I so bitter? It's not like it's his fault he has money. Or my fault that I don't. It is his fault, however, that he follows the sheep. The money is just a side dish.

~ E~

It's funny how I've never felt self-conscious about my car or my family's money until now. Sure, my car has a little bit of a senior citizen vibe, but it's not horrible. Yet here I pick up this crazy hippie chick at the gallery and the next thing I know I feel like I want to sink the fucker in a lake and get a beat-up old Volkswagen bus with tie-dyed curtains on the windows.

There's something wrong with me. Of course, I've known this since I followed her out of the gallery. You can tell just by looking at her that she'll hate every last fucking thing about me. And still here I am, strangely compelled to keep her with me and follow every last direction she comes up with. She might as well be Custer returned from the dead and ordering me into battle. Battle against a lack of caffeine and chocolate, but still, I have this feeling that I'm going to fucking die if I listen to her, and yet I'm already dead, so what does it matter?

She wasn't far off when she called me a sheep. That's what I am. Following orders, conventions, rules, and guidelines. Then again, if I had any sort of ability to think for myself, I wouldn't be here with her in my car. I could have said no to the fucking exhibit. I could have said no to taking this crazy girl anywhere. Maybe I just follow the order that comes at me the loudest.

“You know,” I say, “you didn't tell me your name. I'm going to take a wild guess and assume that your parents are artists, and named you something like Rainbow or Moon Unit or Pilot Inspektor. Can I call you Pi?”

Ha! I surprised her. I'm sure she thought she pissed me off with her railing against the injustices of the class hierarchy. Truth is, she's right, although I'm not about to admit it. She scares me a little. Okay, she scares me a fucking lot. I need to get the upper hand any which way I can here.

“No, actually it's Bella.” “Bella? Are you Italian?” Stupid question, I know, and she's rolling her eyes at me. “It's the dumbest story. You don't even want to hear it.” “It's not like I have anything else to do other than drive you in search of a Snickers bar, right?”

“My mother is kind of a flake. Okay. She's really a flake. So when I was born, she couldn't come up with a fucking name. I mean, how hard is it? You are pregnant for what? Nine months? You can't come up with one fucking girl name and one fucking boy name in nine months?”

I'm trying not to laugh, but she's really on a tear right now.

“So they bring me home from the hospital as Baby Swan.”

“Wait,” I have to interrupt. “Baby Swan? They named you after a bird?”

“No, you fucking idjit, they didn't name me after a fucking bird. That's my last name. Swan. Bella Fucking Swan.”

“Your middle name is Fucking?” At this point, I'm just screwing with her, but what the hell. “No. Jesus. Shut up and let me finish the fucking story. You're the one who said he wanted to hear it.

“So as I was saying, they bring me home as Baby Fucking Swan. With no name. And then, because my mother is, again, a flake, they decide to name me after an actress in some creeptastic movie they went to see not long after I was born.”  
  
“What was the movie?” “What?” “What movie did they go see?”

“Why the hell should it matter what movie it was? They couldn't bother to name me for the nine months I wasn't already born, nor the first month I was actually born, and you want to know what fucking movie it was?”

“Well, sure. If it was a really cool movie, that's a lot better than it being something truly crappy, like, say, anything with Pauly Shore in it, right?”

Looks like I surprised her again, because she's laughing.

“You know what, Rich Kid? You are totally fucking right. It was Blue Velvet, and I'm named after Isabella Rosselini.”

“See? David Lynch. Cool movie. You should be glad you have a name with that kind of story to go along with it.”

She sits back in her seat, a funny sort of smile on her face, like I gave her something really cool to think about. Maybe I'm not such a sheep after all.

~ B~

I'm going to cheat a little bit with Rich Kid here. There is a fucking phenomenal restaurant with the most kickass desserts you can ever imagine. We're going there. I thought about taking him to some dive for coffee, but this place has press pots and desserts that will bring you to orgasm with the first forkfull you stuff into your piehole, and, well, I'm sure he can afford it. He's looking a little bit surprised when we finally pull his stupid, shiny Volvo into a parking space.

“You want to go here?”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with it?”

He's shaking his head, looking all sorts of confused.

“I thought you wanted a Snickers bar?”

“Ah, patience, young Padawan. I said it had to say Snickers. I didn't say it had to be in the wrapper, now, did I? Watch, you will do, and learn you will.”  
With that, I waltz in and press my face up to the glass. There are three huge fucking dessert cases here, each one more tempting than the next. I want to climb into this mofos and fucking bathe in the caloric decadence inside, but I have to content myself with pointing to what I plan to order the second someone seats us and brings me a big ole press pot.

“See, Rich Kid? Snickers Pie, right there on the card. Read it and weep.”

Again, Edward has a sense of humor. He doesn't get pissed at all, just throws his head back, laughs his ass off, and tells our waitress we'll have two gigantic slices before we even sit down. I'm pretty sure Emily Post would frown on that kind of shit—ordering before you are seated—but Rich Kid seems fine with breaking all the rules today. And suddenly, he's seeming a lot fucking hotter to me than he did following Mommy around the gallery.

I wait until I sit down and the waitress actually takes out her little order book before I add two press pots onto our order, daring Rich Kid to ask me to share. Apparently, he's already figured out that he could lose a limb by coming in between me and my Sweet Nectar of the Gods, and he doesn't even raise an eyebrow.

Good boy.

~ E~

I'm wondering if this was her plan all along, but somehow I doubt it. She doesn't seem like much of a planner at all, what with heading off to a gallery with a friend who apparently abandons her regularly enough that she brings along a sandwich yet not bringing a charged cell phone or money for bus fare. It's bizarre, since I think I've planned—or had planned for me—just about every fucking second of my life. Until today. Until I followed her out of the gallery.

She doesn't follow any of the goddamned rules that I've followed my whole life, and yet people seem to be happy around her. The waitress should have been pissed off beyond belief that I'd demanded our desserts like that, and yet her quick laugh and devious smile get me out of my huge faux pas. I just want to sit and listen to her talk, even if she is mostly railing about my money. And some drag show.

“So do you want to come check it out?”

I haven't been paying attention, obviously.

“Check what out?”

“The drag show. As much as I want to let James twist in the wind today for leaving me, he does share his tips with me, and I could use the cash. For, you know, bus fare and Snickers and shit.”

“A drag show? Racing?” She laughs hysterically, and I'm still not sure what I just said wrong. “No, Rich Kid. Drag show as in drag queens. I help James get changed into his superhero identity.” My mouth has to be gaping open like a fucking goldfish. “Drag queens? Like men who dress up as women?” “The very thing. They usually lip sync to tragic disco hits, too.” “And you...”

“I help James get ready. He does his own tuck, natch, because I'm not fiddling with that shit. God only knows where his twig and berries have been, and I'd need a fucking HAZMAT suit to go near them. I do Girl Friday shit... manage fake eyelashes, chicken cutlets, loan bras out, cut off strips of duct tape for the tuck.”

She is not telling me about taping back someone's dick, is she? Is she? “So do you wanna?” “Would I have to watch your friend James, er, tuck?” She laughs again, and

I think that there is no better sound in the world than Bella Swan laughing.

“No, you won't have to watch anyone tuck. Just come for the show. Bring a friend if it will make you feel better... if you bring a guy, at least they'll leave you alone.

Well, for the most part. James will go after any hot guy with a pulse, straight, gay, or animal-lover.”

I idly wonder if Jasper would be willing to come along if I play this off as a type of sociology experiment. And then want to bash my own fucking head in as I nod.

Looks like I'm going to watch The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert for real tonight. Maybe I should brush up on my ABBA knowledge for good measure.


	3. There's a Drag Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a drag show.

I'm kind of embarrassed. I know it's stupid--here I am all hi-fucking-larious ribbing the Rich Kid about his pampered, silver-spoon-fed ass because I'm so avant garde leading la vie boheme (uh... that French is pretty highfalutin' isn't it?)--but the reality is that I'm nervous. I had him drive me all the way back to my apartment and suddenly I'm sick thinking about him seeing my place. I mean, it's all mine and shit, but the furniture is all Early Attic rather than Ethan Allan and I'm guessing that the ratty old saris I found in someone's garbage and washed the shit out of aren't his family's idea of “window treatments.”

What the fuck is it about this guy that has me suddenly questioning every fucking thing about myself? Shit, I know who I am. I've known who I am since the first time I opened my mouth and corrected some teacher who tried to insist on calling me Isabella. I'm Bella. Fucking. Swan. And I don't give a rat's ass what this Volvo-driving, over-privileged, never-worked-a-fucking-day-in-his-life, trust fund baby thinks.

Of course, the second I open my mouth, all the propping up I've just done goes where? Yeah, you got it. Out the fucking window.

“So, uh... you know, you don't have to come in if you don't want to.”

“Seriously, Baby Swan, why are you rescinding the invite? Is your apartment a sty?”

“No.”

“Do you have a hunchback up there dumping bodies of evil archdeacons out the bell tower?”

Is he seriously making literary jokes? Because that is only going to make my panties damp. If I'm wearing panties. Shit. I am wearing panties, right?

“No. It's just... I'm sure my place isn't what you are used to at all. So, you know, if you just want to meet us out at the club, like, you know, later or something...”

“No can do, Baby Swan. You invited me up. You promised me a Diet Coke for my troubles. And now you have me curious. I may end up poking through your closets and medicine cabinet for whatever body parts you've stashed in there.”

He pauses for a minute, like he's half-freaked out about something.

“Shit. The body parts are petrified, right? Like the whole monkey paw thing? I'm not sure my stomach can handle the stench of rotting flesh after that fuckawesome pie you just made me eat.”

Two. That's two literary references. I wonder how much I'd be compromising all of my personal code of ethics if I tell him that I want to fuck like bunnies and have little trust fund babies with him? They could all have striking green eyes and bitchy personalities.

“So what is it you do, Baby Swan?”

“What do I do? What the fuck kind of a question is that?”

“You know, for money. Or do you just dress drag queens? Does that pay well?”

“You don't need to be a smart ass. Dressing drag queens is more a favor to a friend and a few spare bucks. Actually, I'm a temp-slash-quasi-writer.”

“And what does a 'temp-slash-quasi-writer' do?”

“Duh. It really sounds that complicated? I'm a temp. And I'm trying to be a writer. I'm just not, you know, published yet. Unless you count self-publishing on fanfic sites.”

“Okay, first, a temp what? And what is a 'fanfic site?'”

Shit. I seriously need to put some kind of fucking filter on my brain that keeps whatever crap seeps out of my brain from exiting my mouth before it gets edited. And then I need to hire an editor.

“Well, I just temp at whatever. You know, secretary, receptionist, photocopy clerk, dog walker... whatever people need. They call me and send my ass out. Sort of like legal whoring, except I can stay dressed.”

I need to post a Craigslist ad for that editor. I can barter my time as a case study subject for people with uncontrollable diarrhea of the mouth.

“And the other thing?”

I'm not getting out of this, am I? Shit. Maybe if I say it all really fast and run it together he won't think I'm so much of a fucking fruit loop.

“Uh... fanfic is when you write stories and shit based on other people's shit like books and movies and stuff and use their characters and sometimes change the plot and sometimes write a whole new story but everyone sort of looks the same and whatever.”

Thank god I run out of breath at the end here, or I would probably have kept going until they committed me.

“So let me get this straight, Baby Swan.” (He is not going to let this die, is he?) “You make a living doing other people's jobs and spend your free time writing about other people's characters. And I'm the one not thinking for myself?”

By now, he's cracked open the Diet Coke I handed him, and I'm staring at him as he takes his first sip. I'm slack-jawed and probably drooling all over myself.

Fucking-A if Rich Kid isn't smart as a motherfucking whip. And a little bit horrible for making me look in the fucking mirror for the first time in ages.

~ E~

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit scared of Bella's apartment. It was so unbelievably her. My mother spends hours and tens of thousands of dollars making each room perfect, but Bella's apartment looks like it was decorated by a roving band of gypsies who'd just made their way through a circus tent with brief stops at a few garage sales. Eclectic doesn't even begin to describe it. She has what appears to be a pink and purple tie-dyed fleece blanket covering a futon. A lurid purple velour chair with stuffing coming out of holes in the arms. Gold metallic and faux-wood TV trays as end-tables. And a lamp that looks like it's made out of... yes, that's actually a fucking mannequin hand. And are those saris she's using for fucking drapes? I'm a bit worried about ever seeing her bedroom after this. I was only kidding about the monkey paw shit.

I'm going to blame her interior design scheme on my inability to shut my fucking mouth. All the colors and patterns are swirling around and making me so dizzy that I actually just insulted her. What fucking business is it of mine what she does for a living? Maybe she likes helping people when they most need it, like when their receptionist is on vacation and they need a smart, bitchy person to fend off ex-girlfriends and persistent salespeople so people can get their fucking work done. Maybe she likes writing things... aw, shit, who I am kidding? I don't get writing about other people's characters at all, because that just seems nuts to waste your time writing shit you can't publish about things that you can't own a copyright to. Still, I shouldn't judge.

She's staring at me and her mouth is hanging open like she's gone stupid all of a sudden, and I'm wondering if she's so shocked at such a blatant display of my inner asshole that she's been stunned into a state of suspended animation. Just as I'm wondering if I should call 9-1-1 or some such shit, she closes her mouth and sort of blinks at me. Shit. Here's where she tells me to fuck off.

“I never thought of it like that, Rich Kid. I'm sort of pathetic, aren't I?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Now I've gone and hurt her feelings.

“No, not pathetic. Just different. Different isn't bad. Or pathetic.”

“No... just pathetisad. It's okay, Rich Kid. You are totally right. Just let me give you the directions and shit for the club if you still want to go tonight, okay?”

I know when I've fucked up. And I've totally fucked up with this girl. Shit. Still, I'm going to this thing tonight if it kills me. Somehow, I'm going to fix this. I've never met anyone who was easier to talk to or was more interesting. Only I could be enough of a dumb fuck to screw it up before it even began.

I leave quietly, figurative tail between my legs, and hit Jasper's number on my speed dial before I'm in the car.

“Jas? You in for the most fucked-up night of your life?”

His response involves the words “titties, booze, titties, puke.” Obviously the bar is set pretty low for “fucked up” prior to today.

“No, dude. A drag show.”

I shouldn't laugh when he also thinks I'm talking about racing, but I do. Maybe it's just laughing with him, right?

“Look, I met this absolutely incredible girl today at the gallery with Esme. And she said she's bringing a friend.”

Of course, his response here is totally predictable.

“No, Jas, I do not expect you to suck some guy's dick. She's bringing a female friend. And yes, I'm pretty sure she's straight. I'm thinking she would have said something if she wasn't. She's all about the shock value, dude.”

Now he's stuck on repeat: “titties, booze, titties, puke.”

“Sure dude. Just remember that most of the titties are going to be fake. And not the good kind that look like luscious fucking cantaloupes. I'm talking falsies on dudes. But sure, I'll buy the drinks if you come along for moral support.”

That was easier than I thought. Let's just hope he doesn't back out.

~ B~

Obviously, I have an awful lot to think about. Starting with the fact that I have completely fucked up at life. Here I thought I was being all sorts of cool and bohemian and just not caring about shit when in reality I've been fucking Cleopatra. You know, Queen of de Nile and shit. As always, when I need to indulge in a huge amount of introspection, soul-searching, and getting my fucking act together, I call my best friend, Alice.

Mary Alice Brandon is a complete and utter fucking wacko. I say that in the nicest way possible, but girlfriend is batshit insane. For starters, there's her job. She has the craziest-ass job I've ever known anyone to have: she's a fragrance chemist. Can you believe that shit? She sits at a desk, in front of a computer, and comes up with chemical compounds and shit that make things smell like something they aren't. Like that fucked-up candle you bought at the mall that smells like sugar cookies and makes you so hungry you would swear you just smoked a fattie? Yeah. All Alice.

I'm sure that some of her crazy results from sitting at a desk all day wondering how the fuck to get the smell of pumpkin into a spray can, but there are things Alice cannot ever turn down: trying to get me to give a rat's ass about fashion (never happening), trying to fix me up with the man of my dreams, as defined by her (see above... not fucking likely), and going anywhere we can watch people do fucked-up things. In other words, she has no problem hanging out with me because fucked-up shit happens constantly around me. Like the drag shows.

Alice has zero interest in being a fag hag, but she finds the shows to be a high form of entertainment. I'm not sure exactly why that is, but the first time she ever saw James perform in costume she nearly shit herself with glee, and she's been an addict since. She knows most of the girls in their guy mode, and it's an endless source of amazement for her whenever they perform. Of course, she's coming to the show tonight, but first, we need to sit down and talk about Rich Kid.

Alice comes in with a bottle of Patron, her clothes for this evening's festivities, and a shit-eating grin.

“Start talking, Bella! We have exactly three hours until we have to leave for the club, and drinking and primping are totes going to cut into that.”

“What am I supposed to say, Alice? James ditches me at the gallery, as per his usual, and I'm stuck because I'm too stupid to have charged my phone or brought money.”

“Did you have lunch, though?” “Damn straight.”

“Good. At least you won't go hungry. Your brain can manage the basics of food, water, and air. It's just the higher-level functioning you struggle with. You know, like going anywhere with James where pretty boys might walk by in the first place. But please, continue.”

God, she's a smartass.

“So I see him with his mother. Looking like eight kinds of Abercrombie ad fuckable, you know? All pretty and preppy and shit. He has this fucked-up hair that isn't really blonde and isn't really red and isn't really brown and looks like he just rolled out of bed after getting the fuck of his young life. And these green eyes... you know how you see pictures of Ireland? And you know why you always associate green with the place? His eyes are like that. Just. Fucking. Green.”

“Isabella Swan! Did you just sigh over a guy?” Fuck. Did I really? Shit, she is never going to let me live that down.

“So then he takes me to his car... a fucking Volvo, Alice, and we went to Peter's and had coffee and Snickers pie and then we came back here.”

“Did you fuck him?”

“Jesus, Alice? What kind of two-bit whore do you think I am? That's James' M.O., not mine. He seems like an interesting guy.”

“Interesting? Bella, what the fuck? You just said he was 'eight kinds of Abercrombie ad fuckable' and then he's 'interesting?'”

“I dunno, Alice. He makes me think. There aren't a lot of people out there who make me fucking think, you know? Him being hot is just like putting frosting on a fucking brownie. It's awesome and shit, but all the stuff that really turns you on is already there, underneath.”

“A brownie, you say? Well, om nom fucking nom. Now let's start getting ready so I can go meet this hot piece. Does he by any chance have a friend?”

I seriously fucking hope Rich Kid talks his friend into this. If for no other reason, it will get Alice off my fucking back. I'm already thinking I've said way the fuck too much.

~ E~

Okay, I'm not embarrassed to admit that I nearly shit myself walking into the club. There is a motherfucking giant of a drag queen manning the door and I'm not making shit up when I say that this queen could mess up The Rock. Jasper is looking around like a kid at the zoo for the first time, staring at anyone and everything.

I realize that I need to get a drink and fast or I'm going to completely lose my shit and bolt before I ever see Baby Swan and try to make up for the horrible case of foot-in-mouth disease I had this afternoon.

Before I can even make my way up to the bar, this tiny black-haired girl walks up to me with three beers in her hands.

“Are you by any chance Edward?”

Holy shit. This girl must be psychic.

“Uh, yeah. How did you know?”

Her laugh doesn't quite fit the body; you expect a tiny little tinkling fairy laugh to come out of her, but instead, you get this noise that can only be described as a guffaw. She's a little bit scary.

“Well, it helps that Bella described you pretty accurately. And you and your friend have that curious look that all first-timers and breeders have when they come in: a little bit fear and a lot bit terror.”

“They mean the same thing.”

She laughs again.“I know. Who's your friend over here? I got an extra beer hoping you'd bring someone along.”  
  
Like I thought. Psychic. “Oh. Shit. Jas?”

He was so busy staring the fucker almost walked into a post. Typical Jasper, though, he shakes that shit off and comes over, taking the beer I'm handing him.

“Jasper, this is Bella's friend... you didn't tell me your name.”

Not that it mattered at this point, of course. From the second Jasper set eyes on her, they were staring at each other like no one else was even fucking there. I roll my eyes and take a swallow of my beer. Jasper will probably nail this chick in the bathroom, screwing any chance I have of making things up with Bella, and then I will be forced to kill my best friend. This has undoubtedly been the weirdest fucking day of my entire existence.

Just as I'm wondering if I should tell Jasper I'm going to take off and head out, Bella appears at Alice's side. She's a damn savvy girl, and figures out what's what the second she lays eyes on Alice and Jasper. She rolls her eyes as she looks at me and I have to laugh because she looks just as annoyed as I feel at Romeo and fucking Juliet over here meeting eyes and falling in love across a crowded party. Or, you know, drag show.

“Come on,” Bella urges. “The show's about to start and Victoria's up first.” “Victoria?” I get another eye roll out of Bella. “Yeah. James has an utter dearth of originality or creativity. His drag name is Victoria Secretion.”

I'm not sure whether to gasp in horror or bust a gut laughing, and settle for the ultimate fucking spaz move of choking on my beer. Five minutes later, this absolutely frightening drag queen comes out in a costume that looks 90 percent Vegas showgirl and 10 percent my-worst-nightmare-ever. Bella and Alice are giggling, and Bella heads over to the stage before the first verse is over with, waggling her eyebrows at her friend and holding out a bill. It takes me about two seconds to realize that drag queens must get tipped like strippers, and Bella slides the bill into the top of one of his? her? thigh-high stockings, then heads back to us. I'm suddenly really glad that Jasper and I had a couple of shots from his flask before we even walked in, because I am not sure I'm ready for this shit.

Bella has apparently started off the tipping, something I'm sure is planned with them, and people are now wandering up to the stage with bills extended. I have no idea how it happens, but Alice presses a bill into my hand and pushes me forward while Bella winks and blows me a kiss. I balk, because there is no fucking way I'm going to do this, but she leans forward and says,“I'll be right here waiting for you. Tip him and then we can go sit and talk,” and next thing I know, I'm on my way toward the stage.

Of course, as I'm almost there, I'm wondering how the fuck did I let her talk me into this? James--er, Victoria Secretion--was now gyrating in front of me faux-belting out some Annie Lennox number and I was holding a five-dollar bill. He/she/what-the-fuck-ever was now gesturing that I was supposed to deposit said bill into what appeared to be cleavage. Bella had assured me that the cleavage was really a clever trick using make-up and some horrifying things she called chicken cutlets, but still. Cleavage. On what was a man under all this. I shove the bill in, trying with all my might to make sure no part of me comes in contact with any skin at all. I grin at my success, only to turn and hear the loud boisterous laughter of Bella and Alice. Jasper, of course, is too fucking busy making goo-goo eyes at Alice to have given me any back-up here at all. So much for the old bros-before-hos crap. He's fucking gone.

When I get back to them, however, she's not laughing anymore. She's staring at me with this weird-ass expression on her face, and before I have time to figure it out, she grabs my hand and pulls me toward her. I'm standing there, holding her hand, and this fuckawesome floral scent that can only be her reaches me, even with all the booze and smoke and sweat smells swirling around us, and all I can see are her huge, dark, brown eyes and that long brown hair that I just want to grab handfuls of, and the next thing I know, my mouth is on hers and nothing has ever, ever felt so fucking right.

Have I mentioned how much I fucking love drag shows?


	4. There's a Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a sleepover.

I have no words.

Alice gave him the five and I figured he would turn tail and run. No fucking way was he going to be slipping bills into a queen's cleave. But there he went, pleased as punch with himself that he'd done it. And he was so fucking sexy, just waltzing on up there and owning that tip and smiling at me as if he'd just climbed Mount Gay Everest or something, that I couldn't stand it. I had to do exactly what I'd been thinking about doing since he first came over to me on the bench at the gallery. I grabbed him and tried to suck his face clean off.

He's just so... mmph. I mean, one second I'm looking at him with this grin, and then the next I have one hand all wrapped up in the hair at the back of his neck and the other hand grabbing his shirt (and don't think I don't notice that embroidered polo pony under my fingers). His mouth... ungh. His mouth tastes like the beer he's been drinking and yet underneath that he tastes like what I imagine manna from heaven must taste like. And here all this time I thought manna tasted like Cheez-Its. (Don't ask. It was second grade when I figured that out, and Cheez-Its were haute cuisine). But no... manna tastes like Edward Something Cullen the Not-Quite-Second.  
  
He breaks the kiss first, which is probably a good thing, because I am totes running out of air. But there was no way I was going to stop kissing him. No fucking way.

I don't need oxygen that much. When he pulls back, he rests his head on my forehead as we both try to catch our breath. I'm scared to look him in the eye —scared to see that he didn't want that, that he isn't interested—but then strokes my cheek before he puts his fingers under my chin and raises my face so he can look into my eyes.

“Baby Swan,” he says, “I fucking love drag shows.” Shit, Rich Kid. So do I.

Alice, of course, crazy bitch that she is, chooses this exact moment to laugh her fucking braying donkey laugh.

“Damn, Bella. First kiss at a drag show. That'll be one to tell the grandkids.”

Always has to be a smartass, she does. She should know better by now, though.

“Shit, Alice, at least I can tell my grandkids that we met at an art gallery, at an O'Keeffe exhibit. You two will have to confess that you met at the drag show. Try getting out of that one, bitch.”

She and Jasper both give me that deer-in-headlights look that cracks me up. Ha. Mess with the bull and you get the motherfucking horns.

Alice is saved from further wrath, however, by the sudden appearance of Victoria, still in full drag. She's changed out of her deranged peacock costume into a fucking PVC catsuit and I suddenly realize I forgot to head backstage and help her change. I wonder who baby-powdered her sweaty ass to pour her into that get- up if I wasn't there, but I'm not given long to wonder before she punches my arm.

“Cut it out, motherfucker,” I snap. “If you want to dress like a lady, then fucking act like one. Girls don't punch. They slap and pull hair.”

“Bella, quit acting as if you know anything about what girls do. Where the fuck were you, bitch? I had to have that whore Heaven Lee help me change. And I think she stole my rhinestone fucking lashes while I wasn't looking. You are supposed to help me. Not come back out here and play breeder with Alice.”

It's then that she notices Rich Kid and I see her eyes widen as they rape Edward from head to toe. “And who is this fine piece of man meat, may I ask?” I roll my eyes as I introduce them. “James, this is Edward Cullen. I met him at the gallery this morning. You know, after you vanished.”

If I thought introducing her as her boy name (and reminding her that she abandoned me for a quick fuck) would take her down a peg or two, I was wrong. Motherfucker just keeps right up with the eye-fucking as she continues the full appraisal. Edward offers his hand and Victoria acts like the motherfucking Queen of England, offering hers like Rich Kid is going to kiss her ring or something. I take that opportunity to slap her hand away, hissing, “Straight. Mine. Fuck off.”  
  
If Alice's laugh is a braying donkey, Victoria's is a screeching fucking hyena. “Bella, honey, I never thought I'd see the day. You caught yourself an actual man.”

She reaches out and I just know she's going to grab Rich Kid's package. I counter her move with a threatened groin punch, and she backs the fuck up.

“Victoria, so help me, I will knock those balls so far up there that they won't come back down when you pull the tape off. You're lucky I came at all tonight after that shit you pulled this afternoon. Go get some freak with a fetish to buy you a drink, calm the fuck down, and when you can behave like a lady, you can come back to hang with us. And your eyelashes are in the bottom of the fucking make-up case in their little box.”

She's sulking, but she listens and takes off. One time I really did punch her in the 'nads when she was tucked and she'll never make that mistake again. I turn to Alice to giggle over that little exchange, but she and Jasper are so busy playing tonsil hockey, I'm not even sure she heard it. Rich Kid, on the other hand, is staring at me like I'm a ball full of crazy.

# # #

Victoria performs one more time, and I actually remember to head backstage to help her get ready this time. I let her pack up her own shit after her last number, though, because I am still pissed off about being left at the gallery, even if it did mean I got to meet Edward. As is our usual, we head to breakfast, going to a restaurant that's open all night, catering to geezers during the day and all the drag queens and club rats at night. The waitresses have a lot of patience with tables that order nothing but coffee and French fries, probably because queens fresh from a night of good tips will leave hefty gratuities on bills that don't amount to much.

I suppose I should worry about five of us sitting in a booth with nothing else to entertain us but talking to each other, but obviously, I'm too stupid to think ahead like that.

~ E~

Bella has some interesting friends. Besides the drag queens, I mean, because that goes without saying. Her friend Alice seems nice enough when her face is disconnected from Jasper's, and that's actually another crazy thing. Jasper does not get like this. He meets a girl, then he brings her home, and then he fucks her. He should have been out of that club like a shot after giving me the sign that he was leaving. Instead, he just follows Alice around like a puppy dog looking for affection. It would be downright pathetic if I wasn't so fucking sure I'm following Baby Swan around looking just as pussy whipped as he does.

And we haven't even gotten any. Pussy, that is.

This is not a girl to fuck and leave, of that much I'm sure. The kiss back in the club wasn't like anything I've ever felt before, and not that I've fucked a lot of girls, but... well... okay, I've fucked a lot of girls. Thing is, though, those girls were mostly girls from school or kids of friends of my parents and we were fucking because we were bored. There's something about Bella, though, that makes me want to climb inside her mind and take up residence there to figure out what makes her tick.  
  
Her elbow jabbing me in the ribs is telling me I'm obviously not paying any attention, and of course, I come up with the ever-so-caveman-esque “Huh?” to show exactly how fucking out of it I am.

“So Rich Kid, what exactly do you do?” Victoria repeats. “You mean do I have a job, or am I just living off a trust fund and picking up random girls abandoned by  
their friends at art galleries?”

I hear Alice snicker as Victoria/James rolls her/his eyes at me.

“Yes. Do you actually have a fucking job or are you one of those idle rich like Paris Hilton?”

I seriously want to punch this asshat, but I try to be polite. Well, polite enough that I don't punch her.

“Yes, I have a job. Do you have one other than 'dress up like a chick and lip sync?'”

That pisses her off, and I see Alice grab her arm as she stage whispers, “Jesus, Vic, you are being fucking rude.”

“Sorry, Rich Kid. What is it that you do?” “What is it that you do?” I counter. Alice is already laughing that loud-ass laugh when he/she replies: “I'm a kindergarten teacher.”

I completely lose it, spewing coffee every-fucking-where as I'm pissing myself picturing this huge drag queen in the gigantic platform pumps and fucking Catwoman outfit she's wearing teaching a bunch of kids their ABCs.

“Damn it, it's not like I teach in drag, you clueless fucking socialite.”

Apparently, I've hit a nerve and Bella is frowning at me. Shit, can't piss off the Baby Swan.

“Sorry... I was just thinking that you'd look... sorta... tall next to kindergartners.”

Nice save, Cullen. Victoria rolls her eyes and repeats her question, slowly, as if I don't actually know how to speak English:

“What... do... you... do?” “Actually, Vicky, I'm a programmer.” “Programmer of what? What the fuck is that? In English, please, Paris.”

Jasper, by now, is giggling and muttering to himself, the stupid prick, so I turn to Victoria and use the same “talking to a fucktard” speech pattern she used with me.  
  
“I built a little social networking site that I run.”

“That's a job?” she sneers.

“It pays a few bills, yes.”

“What's it called?”

“Placelikeho(dot)me*. You might have heard of it? Posted a few pictures of your last drag show on it?” The silence is deafening until I hear Bella laugh hysterically.

“Oh my fucking god, Rich Kid. You're serious, aren't you? You own the biggest goddamn site in the universe? The one people post their drunk and puking pics on and announce their break-ups on? Fucking hilarious. Daddy Warbucks must be so proud.”

The truth is, my father doesn't give a rat's ass how I make money so long as I'm not sitting on my duff on the family money. I took a Comp. Sci. degree from MIT and managed to ride the crest of a wave, starting my own company. It's an honest day's work that lets me set my own hours and not answer to anyone other than the site's users. And truth be told, I could replace that Volvo ten times over if I wanted to. Turns out advertisers are willing to pay good money to run their ads next to pictures of puking frat boys.

~ B~

Christ on a pogo stick. I am a fucking idiot. I have been harassing this guy all day about living on his trust fund and he's the mother-trucking CEO of the most popular social site on the Internet. Shit. I think my grandmother has a profile on there. And I had the fucking huevos to drag him to my flea-bag apartment for a Diet Coke? Take him to a drag show? I'm so freaked out right now that I can't even blink and I hop up from the table to run to the ladies' room before I puke on his lap or something.

Alice, god bless her love-struck little soul, knows that I never piss in public bathrooms if I can possibly avoid it and seeing as I haven't broken the seal yet tonight, I can probably hold it another hour. In other words, something is seriously fucking wrong with Bella.

“Bella, what's wrong? You practically flew out of the booth. Victoria is out there telling Edward you probably got your period unexpectedly just to be lewd.”

“Alice, what the fuck have I done?” “What do you mean, what have you done? Other than nearly take out Jasper with a coffee cup, nothing!”

“Alice, that guy is the fucking CEO of a huge Internet company! I'm a temp! A fucking temp! I don't even have a job of my own!”

“Uh huh. And he knew that when he came out tonight, right?”

“Yeah, but that's not the point. I had no fucking idea! I figured he was a trust fund baby out slumming and shit!”

“Bella, the only thing that's changed is that you have some more information than you had at the start of the night. If he's not bothered by it, why should you be?”

“Because I don't date CEOs.”

“Bella, you don't date period. He likes you. Shit, he tipped Victoria for you. Don't get all freaked out and pick him apart for this. He seems like a nice guy. Don't fucking blow it. Now I'm going to walk out there and take Jasper home so Edward can drop you off. I'll roust Victoria or tell her to bugger off to another table. Get out there and be fucking polite, will you? And try to not swear so much. It's uncouth.”

With that, she abandons me. I look at the brown paper towels and wonder if they'd work the same as a brown paper bag because I feel like I'm hyperventilating. I also contemplate moving into the bathroom. I mean, there's water. There are toilets. And I bet I can bribe the wait staff to bring me pancakes and coffee in the morning, right?

I know that I'm being ridiculous. I have to go back out there. I just have to face him and tell him that I can't do this. I'm just me. I don't date CEOs. I'm not cut out for that shit. I take a deep breath and open the door, and fuck me gently with a chainsaw, he's leaning against the wall like sex on a stick. Waiting for me.

“Everyone left, Baby Swan. I'm guessing you need a ride home.”

“You don't have to drive me home, Edward. Really. I can grab a bus from here. It's pretty much a straight shot.”

He raises one eyebrow like he's looking at a crack ho playing Eliza Doolittle.

“Baby Swan, what sort of man do you think my mother raised, that I would allow you to take a bus home when I have a perfectly good Daddy-bought Volvo in which to drive you?”

“Edward, really. I take the bus all the time at night. It's actually pretty cool. You meet some interesting people that way.”

“Baby Swan?”

I'm seriously having a hard time getting through this conversation. I want to fucking take the five steps over to him and lick him up one side and down the other before winding my fingers in that sex hair. Wait. He wants my attention. Must not lick. Must speak.

“Yes, Edward?”

“Why are you suddenly calling me by my given name when you've been referring to me as Rich Kid all day?”

I bite my lip. Hard. There's no way getting out of this one. “You aren't really a trust fund baby. The name doesn't fit.”

“Yes, I am a trust fund baby. I have a huge trust fund, in fact. So huge I could cash it out and you could swim in it.”  
  
There he goes again with that smirk that only shows up on one side of his face and ungh. He holds out a hand to me.

“Come on, Baby Swan. Quit thinking so damn much. I'm still the same guy you offered your sandwich to and demanded dessert from. Let me drive you home.”

~ E~

She's fucking amazing. Amazing. She's smart and she's funny and she doesn't take shit from anyone, and she has no respect for money or  
social circles or which fucking club your family belongs to.

Best of all, she had absolutely no idea who I am. I could tell by the look on her face and the way she nearly upended all our coffee cups running off to the bathroom that she was shocked.

And a little bit afraid.

That part I hated. Nothing changed about me when I told her what I did for a living. As if the money isn't bad enough, being one of the most famous CEOs in the land of Geekistan means people either want to be your friend for the wrong reasons or don't want to come anywhere near you. Baby Swan seems to be leaning toward the latter.

I follow her directions back to her apartment, and manage to get a spot on the street right in front of her building. She moves to get out of the car, but I grab her hand.

“Baby Swan, aren't you going to ask me up?”

Her eyes grow huge as she answers, “Uh, look, Edward...”

Ugh. I'm such a fucking idiot with this shit. She thinks I want to come upstairs for a quick fuck.

“Baby Swan, I have no plans to sully your reputation. I just like spending time with you and there wasn't really an opportunity to just sit and talk tonight. Do you have tea? We could have tea.”

I sound like a fucking imbecile at this point. Tea? Seriously? I'm suggesting she make me tea?

She looks sad as she answers, “Edward, I think you are a really nice guy. And I had a lot of fun with you today. But I'm not the kind of girl who's right for you.”

Shit. Not only did she not call me Rich Kid, but she didn't swear once in that whole thing. Not a single fuck to be heard. I need to fix this, now.

“So let me get this straight, Baby Swan. If I was just a rich little shit living off the family money, I'd be fine to date. Fine to make out with even. But when you find out I work for my money, you tell me to fuck off? I'm okay as long as you can laugh at me behind my back with your friends but if I'm not the butt of a joke, you tell me to fuck off?”

It takes a lot of work to keep from smirking as I'm saying that, but it has exactly the impact I was planning on. Baby Swan is fucking pissed.

“Are you fucking serious? Are you calling me a hypocrite you overly-monied, Ralph-Lauren-wearing, monkey-fucking pretty boy? Because I didn't invite you upstairs? Well, I apologize for my lack of social fucking graces. I wasn't born with a chauffeur to drive me home from the hospital. By all means, come right upstairs to my humble shack. Just let me alert the butler that you'd like crumpets with your tea.”

With that, I know that Baby Swan is back, and I can't stop laughing as I run around the car to open her door before pulling her out and tossing her over my shoulder.

She realizes exactly what I've done here, and she's laughing too as I carry her up the stairs to her apartment.

Next thing I know, I am rubbing my eyes staring at a lamp made out of an arm and a girl wearing faded pink pajama pants with skulls all over them and a light gray tank-top with what looks like a coffee stain on it. She's holding my phone and a cup of coffee.

“Look, Rich Kid, I don't know what kind of cock-knobbery you're into, but this fucking piece of electronic evil has been going off for fucking twenty minutes.

Someone thinks something is awfully important to be forcing my ass out of bed at eight on a fucking Sunday morning.”

I scroll to the recent call list and realize it's my mother. Shit, shit, shit. When I stopped home yesterday to change before heading to Jasper's, she asked why I'd left the gallery like that. Like an idiot, I told her I was going out to coffee with a girl I'd met. Esme being Esme, she asked me to invite the girl to meet them. This is her checking to make sure that I am indeed bringing said girl for the Cullen version of the Spanish inquisition.

“Um, Baby Swan?”

I know that I sound as nervous as a pimply-faced teenager asking for a date right now, but it can't be helped. I'm about to ask a Christian if she'd like to go to the Coliseum for Eggs Benedict.

“Would you like to come to brunch with me at my parents' today?”

Any other girl would say no. Any girl with a lick of common sense would say no. But this is Baby Swan. And if I've learned nothing else in the past 18 hours, it's that

Baby Swan never does the safe thing. Within 20 minutes,, she's standing in front of me, showered, and wearing a black dress that falls to just about her knees, purple and teal tie-dyed stockings, and black combat boots that climb up over her calves.

There is no fucking way this is going to go well. Why I opened my big, fat, constantly flapping mouth to my mother I will never know. It was stupid. I should have told her I left because Jasper called. And now, I am driving Baby Swan to a certain Armageddon no human should have to face: Sunday brunch with Carlisle and Esme. In the formal dining room. Using the good china.

I wonder if it's too early to ask the butler for a shot of tequila.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little tired. I'll post the rest for your tomorrow. xoxo


	5. There's Brunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's brunch.

The boots are my security blanket. If I'm going to be walking into brunch with Daddy Warbucks and fucking Ivana Trumpette, I need to remind myself of who I am: Bella. Fucking. Swan. I can't be anything other than what I am. And if I'm going to kick ass and take names, I need my boots.

Edward may think I didn't notice his look of horror when I came out and said I was ready, but he'd be wrong. As much as I think it's way too soon to be inflicting myself on those from whose loins he sprang, we might as well get this over with. If I'm a bad fit, no sense in prolonging this only to be dumped later. Let's pull this shit off like a Band-Aid: fast and as painfully as possible. 

Sure, I could have dragged out the old “interview suit” or found some combination of shit that looked prissy enough for this Breakfast of Millionaires. I can't pretend to be something I'm not. Pretty Woman and Pygmalion are stories, not reality. It's going to be all I can do to keep from blurting out “fuck” and “shit” like I have Tourette's, and I need my armor on in order to manage here. My armor just happens to be combat boots and tie-dye tights.

I can tell Edward is nervous by the way he's not really looking at me and not really talking to me. When he starts drumming on the steering wheel and looking anywhere but at me, I sneak his iPod out of the little adapter he's got and pop my own in. He doesn't notice anything is amiss until he hears some Black Dahlia Murder start playing. Loudly. Because there's nothing better to prep for brekkie with the 'rents than a little bit of deathcore on a Sunday morning. I start halfway through the album on the song “Of Darkness Spawned” just for giggles... Get it? I'm going to brunch with the spawn.

Edward jumps as it starts. I suppose it might be a little jarring in a Volvo on a Sunday morning when heading to the family manse, but then he laughs like he's suddenly gone batshit insane. I know we're okay, at least for now. He's relaxing a little bit.

“Look, Edward You don't have to do this. I don't need for you to do this today to prove anything, either to me or to them. You can turn around and dump me off home and I won't be at all offended. I know I'm not exactly meet the parents material.”

“Bella, that's not it at all.” “Edward!” I know by now that using his real name gets his attention. It freaks him out for some reason I have yet to determine. 

“Bella!”

“Seriously, Rich Kid. You seem totes stressed about this. You just met me yesterday. Does Daddy Warbucks really demand the pre-nup this soon? I swear I'm not going to be like that guy who married Britney before the completely FUBAR head-shaving shit.”

“What?” He seems addled. I guess I do that to people pretty often.

“Well, I'm not interested in your money. Beyond the whole Snickers thing, that is, but surely they can't begrudge me a piece of fucking pie and some coffee, right?”

“You think I'm worried about this brunch because I think that my parents are going to see you as a fucking gold-digger?”

I bite my lip as my hand sneaks over to the iPod's scroll-wheel, changing the song before he wises up. He's still obsessing over there in his own private fucking Idaho when the chorus starts and he finally just fucking loses it.

“Fuck me running, Baby Swan. Kanye? Seriously? No, I'm not worried about what they are going to think of you. I'm more afraid of what you are going to think of them.”

“Edward, please. I'm just trying to lighten the mood here. I know I'm sort of—okay, really—a mess and I wasn't bred to have manners.”

“Will you stop fucking calling me Edward? It just makes me more nervous!”

“Rich Kid, what are you so afraid of? That they won't like me? That they'll be mean? Shit, that doesn't bother me at all. It only bothers me if it upsets you. I'm going to fit into your world about as well as a whore at a convent, but it'll be way worse if I try to pretend to be something I'm not, okay? If you want to blow this off, then turn the car around, but if not, let's just fucking do this.”

He seems to settle down, and next thing I know, he turns down this gravel road. I'm suddenly wondering if he's some crazy-ass axe murder and this whole fucking thing has been a set-up for him to take me back to his Unibomber shack in the woods where he'll kill me and turn me into Bella-jerky. Instead, I see this huge- ass house plopped right in the middle of the woods and I wonder if his parents are the ones who will be turning me into Bella-jerky if this is how they live with all that cash.

He's running his fingers through his hair while he takes a few deep, cleansing breaths. Dude could use some fucking lessons in transcendental meditation and shit, but he comes over to my side of the car and opens the door for me all hoity-toity-like. He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek before taking my hand and leading me to the door, which opens before we even get to it.

They have a fucking butler.

The cool thing is that the butler seems pretty down and shit; he's got these rockin' dreads and he's not dressed like Jeeves or anything, but I just about lose it when Edward introduces him: “Baby Swan, this is Laurent. He runs the show. Laurent, this is Miss Isabella Swan.”

Rich Kid even uses that swanky en français business where he leaves off the “t” like Stephen Colbert does. I'm probably breaking all kinds of snooteriffic rules here, but I offer Laurent my hand and introduce myself since Rich Kid did such a piss-poor job of it.

“It's just Bella, Laurent. And it's a pleasure to meet you.” Laurent shakes my hand and gives me a huge smile. Edward just gives me a funny look.

Next up are the 'rents, and they are sitting in a living room (do the rich folks call this the salon or the sitting room or some shit like that?) that is so sterile you could fucking do surgery in there. I haven't seen this much white-on-white décor since Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and in the middle of it, a smoking- hot, middle-aged man who could only be Rich Kid's father stands to greet us.

“Bella, this is my father, Carlisle. Dad, this is Bella Swan.” Wait. What? I thought he was Edward Something Cullen the Not-Quite Second? How the fuck is his  
father's name Carlisle? Shit. I am going to be turned into Bella-jerky. He can't even keep his story straight. Rich Kid must see that I'm about to start screaming and running for the nearest exit. He already has me totes figured out because he leans over and whispers, “Edward Carlisle and Edward Anthony.”

Now I know his middle name. It's tragic, but I swoon anyway. Rich Kid the First shakes my hand and he looks a lot like Edward, only blonde, which means my ovaries are already beginning to plot against me. Little trust fund babies that look like Edward and fuckhot geezer Edward in my bed by the time I'm forty. This is a plan I might be able to live with.

Up next, however, is Mommie Dearest. One look at her and I know I'm fucked. She'd drop-dead gorgeous, with the same hair color as Edward, only I'm sure hers is stringently maintained by a stylist who probably gets to sleep in a closet. Even her name is classy: Esme. All French and shit. Why do people think French names sound classier than Italian ones? And why do crazy parents name their kid an Italian name when they aren't even Italian in the first place?

She doesn't offer her hand, but nods at me like a Queen to her subject, and I realize it's fucking on as she announces that brunch will be served in the dining room. I'm just waiting for her to add “with the lead pipe.”

~ E~ 

This is the part I've been dreading. The actual meal.

Bella already made her feelings about formal dining fairly clear at coffee yesterday, but smiles sweetly at me as I pull out her chair for her. That smile alone should have told me something was up. She daintily drops her napkin onto her lap and takes a tiny sip of her mimosa before collecting several pieces of silverware and placing them unceremoniously into a pile in front of her plate, leaving one fork, one knife, and a single spoon at her plate.

I hear Laurent stifle a laugh behind us as Esme looks on in horror. This is going to be a long brunch.

I can see Carlisle's eyes flickering back and forth between Bella and my mother, but Bella is the first to speak.

“I have to apologize for my dreadful manners. I get confused easily and figured if I was going to mess up anyway, I could save Laurent over there the extra silver-polishing by taking out the ones I'll end up not using.”

I have never in my life seen a spit-take at this table, but Carlisle managed to soak his shirt and his napkin with coffee as my mother glared daggers at him. Laurent was by Carlisle's side instantly with a clean napkin to let him mop up, and I nearly missed the exchange between my father and Bella. He winked. She smiled. She's already won a parent over. In under twenty minutes.

Esme, however, is going to be a tougher sell. I don't think she's ever let a tie-dyed garment touch her, and Baby Swan's unique fashion sense has to be an affront to a woman who regularly attends Fashion Week just to sneer in disdain at anything that isn't classic. I'm sure she can't remember the last time something that wasn't made by Ralph, Georgio, or Donna made contact with her skin.

“So... Bella... Edward neglected to mention what you do for a living.”  
She utters Bella's name with such a sneer that I want to stab her with the butter knife. I've tried dating the daughters of her snooty friends, and she wasn't any happier with those relationships than I was. Why is she being so damn condescending to Baby Swan?

“Mother...”

“Be quiet, Edward. I wasn't speaking to you. I was asking Miss Swan a question you had ample opportunity to answer before this morning.”

“Actually, Mrs. Cullen, I'm still exploring my options. Currently, I'm working through a temporary agency, because it allows me to see a host of different career paths.”  
It's my turn to choke, and Carlisle obliges me with a resounding smack on my back, which is less choking assistance and more a reminder to watch my manners with Esme, who won't hesitate to put me in my place in front of Baby Swan.

“I see. A temporary office worker, you say?”

“Yes,” Bella answers, “most of the time, anyway.”

Esme's only response is to hum. I want to grab Baby Swan, save her from this family clusterfuck, and go to that place with the Snickers pie. Or the diner from last night. Or have her make me one of those goat cheese bagels and sit in her crazy living room and just hold her and apologize for the fact that I ever exited my mother's loins, as much as that mental image gives me the shakes.

“And did you attend university, Bella?”

If I didn't want to kill my mother before, I do now. I'm wondering if I can smash the base off one of the mimosa flutes and use it to find out if her cold, black heart would bleed or simply remain in its frigid, unyielding state. Shit, I don't even know if Bella went to college. If she did, I'm sure it was some crazy place that offered a major in underwater basket weaving, in which she has a BFA. “Yes, Mrs. Cullen. I went to Cornell.”

Laurent at this point has retrieved a pile of napkins from the sideboard, and hands two to my father before coming to deal with the mess that I've made of myself. He's completely given up on any semblance of decorum and is laughing outright. I don't think Laurent has had this much fun at his job in the entire time he's been with the family.

You see, Baby Swan has just announced that she attended my parents' alma mater. And Esme's cool demeanor has suddenly defrosted. Bella isn't some hobo after the family money; she's an Ivy-League- educated free spirit. Something that Esme herself actually was once upon a time, before she got caught up in the whole fuckery of society.

By the end of brunch, she and Bella are fast friends, and she absconds with Baby Swan to her personal fucking sitting room. Leaving me spinning my wheels with my father, who hands me a glass of fucking brandy and raises one eyebrow.

“Son, you are completely and utterly fucked. You may as well enjoy it.” 

~ B~

I'm skipping as we head back to Rich Kid's Greedmobile. I thought that went swimmingly. The butler is one cool dude, and Rich Kid's parents aren't nearly as uptight as he thinks. Main problem there is that they seem to hang out with a bunch of fuckwits and have forgotten who they are. I'm not sure Edward over here ever really knew his parents as people, only seeing the face they put toward society and then the parental face.

Esme was wicked cool. She knew the bagel shop on the Ithaca Commons where my fuckawesome goat cheese bagel sandwich originated, and she knew all the key locations for parties and shopping. We giggled over all the stupid bumper stickers: “Ithaca is Gorges” and “Another Gray Day in Ithaca” being personal favorites. Seemed like that place never saw any sun, and the gorges were well-known locales for overly stressed students taking things to a premature conclusion, so pimping them as a tourist spot always seemed a bit off.

Edward, however, is deadly silent, and his iPod is back in the adapter, playing soothing classical music. I like Debussy as much as the next person, but he could branch out a little. Maybe try some opera for a change. Play something that shakes it up a little bit. I'm thinking Lucia's mad scene would be a healthy piece for him to try. But he's quiet and listening to relaxing music and suddenly, I'm realizing just maybe I did something wrong. Maybe Rich Kid brought me home as a delayed adolescent rebellion and I just landed face-first in a pile of fail because I made nice to the parental units.

Before I even realize that I'm doing it, I find myself shrinking against the door. I thought I was supposed to make nice. I thought he was nervous about bringing me to brunch. Turns out maybe what I thought was nerves was really excitement at making his stand against the staid 'rents. Boy, did I ever fuck that up. Maybe Rich Kid should have given me a manual for this shindig.

Debussy gives way to Bach as we get closer to my apartment, and I've already got my hands on the door handle so I can get the fuck out of here as soon as the car comes to a stop. Rich Kid is shocked at how fast I make it out, and I would have made it inside, too, if I hadn't dropped my keys like the utter spaz that I am. “Baby Swan?” His voice is quiet. “Are you okay?”

Fuck. I'm crying. This stupid, wealth-hobbled, model-worthy, ovary-conspiring toasterfuck has made me cry. I do not cry. Ever.

“Baby Swan, are you crying?” “Fuck you, Rich Kid. I'm just as goddamned shocked as you are. I don't cry. I definitely don't cry over this  
kind of shit.” “But why are you crying?”

“I'm crying, you fuckwit, because I don't know what you want. I'm crying because I tried my best to make nice to your parents, and all it does is piss you off for some reason. And I'm crying, you fucking buttmunch, because all I am to you is some kind of slumming moment or Eliza Doolittle and I thought you were a nice guy. For once, I thought I'd met a nice guy.”

The last thing I expected after that little outburst was this, but I find myself wrapped up in all the yummy goodness of Rich Kid's arms as he rubs my back and kisses the top of my head and makes me forget that I'm crying and remember why I want him to bend me over the Volvo and conspire with my egg factories some more.

“Baby Swan, you thought I was pissed? You're upset because you think I'm mad at you?”

“Well, aren't you?”

“Fucking hell. No, I'm not mad. I'm just floored. My mother doesn't like anyone. Well, she does like Jasper. But that's it. She's never liked a girl I've dated. Not even the ones she set me up with. So you can imagine I'm a little bewildered by whatever witchcraft you just worked on her that had her inviting you for a private little chat in her boudoir.”

I have to laugh at that. He just fucking said “boudoir.” “So I was okay?”

“Baby Swan, you were fucking glorious. So glorious, in fact, that I can't stand the fact that I'm now dropping you off back at your apartment.”

“So then why are you?” “You don't want to go in?” He sounds a bit boggled. “Of course not. Do you?”

I'm lying, of course. I want to take him inside and “show him my etchings.” But I don't think we are ready for that. And I'm not sure I shaved my legs yesterday, and I know I didn't shave them this morning.

“No, Baby Swan. I do not want you to go in. What would you like to do?”

I think for about two seconds before a stroke of staggering genius hits me upside the head.

“Star show, Rich Kid. Planetarium. Next one starts in 20, so let's move.”

Ah yes, Rich Kid. Star show. Dark. Quiet. And you don't feel guilty for spending the money and making out the whole time since there's no plot to follow and no popcorn getting spilled from your lap onto the floor.

~ E~

I haven't been to the planetarium since elementary school. I have no idea why Bella wants to do this, but I already know that I am powerless to say no to her. Which is how we end up at the Planetarium on a Sunday. She quickly takes off, claiming something about “too much richie drink” and heads off to the rest rooms while I go to the ticket counter and buy our tickets.

By the time I pay, a crowd is already lining up at the doors and Baby Swan is still M.I.A. I grow concerned, hoping she isn't sick, and start pressing through the throng toward the rest rooms. Of course, I have no plan once I get there; it's not like I can just stroll into the ladies' room and ask around to see if anyone has seen a girl in combat boots, but I don't know what else to do.

As I finally reach the door and start wondering exactly what I'm going to do, I hear a page over the planetarium's intercom system. And I suddenly realize that my father had neglected to inform me of exactly how far fucked I was.

My mother, it appears, has really taken a shine to Baby Swan. And in her mimosa-induced haze, she must have spilled quite a number of family secrets. Including this one. I should have used the butter knife when I'd had the chance.

“Will Mr. Horrible please report to the ticket counter? Mr. Horrible? Your party is here to meet you.” And to think I was worried about my mother not liking Bella. Bitch went and gave her ammunition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUBAR: often used by coders and military. Stands for “fucked-up beyond all recognition.”


	6. There's a Star Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a star show.

This idea was pure win. I'm sitting next to Rich Kid. In a dark planetarium. By some stroke of luck, we are over in the corner where few people ever sit because you have to crane your neck to see around the big ass robot-thing that puts the show on the ceiling. There are a few high school kids around us, but thankfully, no ankle-biters. He's still a little mad about the page, but I bet I can make him forget all about that. I lean toward him, resting my head against his shoulder as if I'm just trying to get a better look at the show. Casually, I rest my hand on his thigh and slowly start sliding my hand back and forth, all innocent-like. Every time I run my hand back up his thigh, I go just a tiny bit farther, totally working this and hoping I'm driving him insane.

The ovaries are totes in control here, so he knocks my boots off when he suddenly grabs me, yanks me toward him, and smashes his lips against mine. I'm just about to slide my hands into his hair so I can weasel my tongue into his mouth when he uses my hair to yank my face back about two inches.

“Don't ever use that name again, Baby Swan.”

My maniacal laughter may disturb a few other planetarium patrons, but I can't hold back. Esme is all kinds of fucking win for offering me that gem this afternoon along with a few snorts from the flask she keeps on her. Edward really didn't describe his parents well at all; they were a lot of fun once you scratched below the surface.

I wonder what will happen when I scratch Rich Kid below the surface.

Sometimes I feel like he's going to be all pretty swirls of colors... like when your art teacher had you color a paper, then color over it with black crayon and scratch it off. But other times, I worry that if I scratch off the black top layer, all that's underneath is boring old white.

I need more than boring old white.

Let's face it; Rich Kid was raised with butlers and too much silver and cars being handed over at the drop of a hat. I was raised with collection agencies and sporks and bus passes you scraped change out of couch cushions to afford. He has an Ivy League education that was bought with money and name. I have an Ivy League education that was bought with ass-kissing and working my fucking fingers to the bone to get a scholarship for. Oh yeah, and the student loans that have to be paid every month, which is the main reason I'm temping in the first place.

But tomorrow is Monday and I can worry about all that real life shit when that horrible day rears its ugly fucking head. In the meantime, Rich Kid is sitting here next to me in the dark while we watch the same goofy-ass star show that's probably been playing here since our parents were knee-high to some hypothetical grasshopper that's apparently a giant, because who comes up with these cliches anyway? And my fingers are itching to get into that hair.

Well, truthfully, they are itching to get somewhere else, too, but I don't want to look like the whore of Babylon here.  
  
So I act all sorts of contrite and whisper some sort of generic apology, because survey says? Ding-ding- ding, anything that gets that sort of reaction out of him is the number one thing I have to use again. I'm not exactly sorry for using that against him. More like I'm sorry he cut off what should be an epic macking session currently underway. It works anyway, though, and he moves toward me again. This time, his hands in my hair are soft... gentle... as he applies just the slightest pressure to bring my lips back to his. Unlike the kiss in the club or the fake-out a few minutes ago, he's... oh-em-gee, he's... seductive.

Edward starts with quick, teasing kisses, pulling away every time I move to deepen the kiss even a little. Each time he returns, I can sense that his lips are pulled into a smile; he knows exactly what he's doing. He doesn't know I'm onto him, though, and the next time I feel that crooked smile pressed against my lips, I dart my tongue out, snagging just a taste of his lips. Is that a hint of brandy? Something tells me Edward Carlisle Cullen the Not-Quite-First gave the Golden Child a bit of liquid courage just like Mommie Dearest gave me. The tongue must have worked, however, because when he comes back again, he doesn't pull away again. He's not in any rush to face off in a game of tonsil hockey, though, and I melt into him.

I could stay here forever, in the dark, his lips moving against mine. I whimper a little as my hands creep to his neck, my thumbs ghosting his jaw, and he hums against me, sounding for all the world like a cat purring in contentment. We are so caught up that we don't even realize the star show is over. Everyone has found the Big Dipper. The house lights are on. And one of the planetarium staffers is standing over us clearing his throat.

Rich Kid turns 800 shades of magenta, but I laugh, winking at the poor dude sent to break us up.

“You know, you should tell the management we really miss the reclining seats with the speakers by your ears. It made for a much more intimate experience.”

Now the poor dude is as red as Rich Kid, and I execute my coups de grâce: “Come on, Rich Kid. I want to show Mr. Horrible my apartment.”

He growls, but he's not going to say a word in front of the poor high school kid, and he accepts my offered hand as we leave.

~ E~

I don't care if my father writes me out of the will. I'm going to kill my mother. If I had any doubts about Bella knowing the entire story behind my unfortunate childhood nickname, they were erased the second time Baby Swan uses it.

I place some of the blame, of course, on my sister Rosalie. And if Baby Swan doesn't cut this taunting out, I may sic my sister on her. Soon.

Rosalie had the benefit of five years on me. Apparently, Carlisle and Esme didn't want to over-stress the nanny by requiring her to change two children in diapers at a time, so they waited until Rosalie was ready to start kindergarten before attempt number two at achieving the right set of genitalia. Of course, this meant that Rosalie felt she had all of the knowledge of the world long before I did, and lorded it over me. Regularly.  
  
Take, for example, the first guy she ever slept with. His name was Alec, and he was an utter prick. To this day, I don't know what she saw in him, and she admits she had no idea either. Of course, it didn't stop her from losing her virginity to him, and one day, I walked past her room only to hear her talking to a friend about “Mr. Wonderful.” I hesitated, wondering who on Earth she could be talking about, since Alec wasn't even close to anything anyone would call wonderful, even her friends.

As she continued to spill her guts with me listening to every word, I was treated to an earful about Alec's size. And Alec's girth. And what Alec did with the aforementioned assets.

At eleven, I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. He wasn't very tall, and he certainly wasn't fat, and it's not like he played football or something where his size would have been useful even if he was everything Rosalie claimed that he was. I crept closer to her bedroom door trying to hear better, only to trip and fall into the door, revealing that I was eavesdropping.

Rosalie cut off her phone call, slammed the phone down, and stalked over to me. “Were you listening to me, you little prick?” “No. Well, not really.” “How much did you hear?”

Again, I was eleven, and not the sharpest tack in the box when it came to dealing with teenaged girls. “Um, not much, but why do you call Alec 'Mr. Wonderful?'” I didn't expect her to start laughing. I actually thought she'd start pounding on me, like she usually did. “You stupid little shit. I wasn't calling Alec “Mr. Wonderful.”I was talking about his dick.”

“His what?” I asked stupidly. “His cock. His Johnson. His one-eyed trouser snake.”

I'm sure that my eyes were as round as saucers as I stared at her. Was my sister actually telling me she had a name for her boyfriend's... penis?

“If you breathe a word to Mother and Father about this, I will kick your weenie little ass into next week, Edward. And don't worry; no girl is ever going to be referring to yours as 'Mr. Wonderful.' From what I've seen when you forgot your towel, 'Mr. Horrible' would be more like it.”

From that point on, any time Rosalie wanted to cut me down to size, she'd utter her new, secret nickname for me. Until one day, I finally broke down crying to my parents when I was a sophomore, petrified that I really was defective.

Rosalie was in college by then, but my parents assured me that there was nothing wrong with me, other than allowing an older sister to torment me for five years without saying anything to them. My parents still find it amusing that I let a woman get the upper hand like that, even if it was my sister. By handing that over to Baby Swan, my mother is allowing it again.  
  
I wonder why that is.

~ B~

Rich Kid seems lost in thought the whole way back to my apartment. I'm wondering if he's really that pissed about me using his sister's old nickname for him, but when his mom told me the story, I thought it was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard.

He seems so damn confident all the time. And I'm such a fucking headcase. I love the little nickname, because it means at one point he was every bit as scared of the world as I am. When he parks the car and comes around to open my door, I realize I already expect him to at this point, and I wait for it. I'm letting myself get used to him, and after what? 30 hours? Not even? I'm scared.

Rich Kid walks me up to my door, but makes no move to kiss me or come in when I open it. All he does is stand in the hall and I turn around, wondering what he's doing. He looks kind of sad, standing there, and I'm more scared of that than I am of waiting for him to open my door for me.

“I had a nice time, Bella. I guess I'll see you around.”

Wait, what? He's leaving? He'll see me around? What kind of asshattery is this?

“Edward, why are you leaving?”

“Don't you want me to?”

“What sort of fucking alien anal probe signal gave you that idea?”

He bites his lip, and it's so fucking cute that I want to lick it better. What the hell, ovaries? He's leaving. Shut the hell up.

“You seem to enjoy making fun of me. Like this is a joke. Like I'm a joke.” Shit. Open mouth and forcibly insert foot, Isabella. He thinks I'm mocking him.

“Aw shit, Rich Kid. I knew I'd fuck this up by the end of the day. Come on in. I'll make you that cup of tea after all. You'll have to call Laurent on the Batphone, though, if you want the goddamned crumpets.”

He walks in, head down, and shoulders slumped. It's amazing that my harpy skills are so fucking effective. I am a weapon of mass destruction the government would kill to possess. I bet I could emasculate an entire army given the right ammo.

“Have a seat, Rich Kid.”

I point to the futon, hoping like hell that he doesn't ignore me and head to the chair. If he takes the chair, I'm fucked and I can't fix this. I dump out whatever dusty water must be in the tea kettle before refilling it and lighting the burner. I sneak a peek once the water is on; he's on the futon, head down, with his elbows on his knees. I want to run in there and fucking cuddle him and tell him that I'm sorry for everything. At the same time, I am so fucking afraid that if I do, he'll know that

I'm just a frightened little girl who's already in over her head with him.  
  
So I wait for the kettle to whistle.

While I'm waiting, I put tea bags into cups and then remove them. Rinse and repeat. Would he like chamomile to relax? Darjeeling? Should I bring all of them out and let him choose? Is that trashy? How would Laurent serve tea to company? Can I call Laurent and ask him?

Finally, I grab two boxes: the chamomile and the Darjeeling. The honey bear. And I pray he doesn't want milk or lemon because a quick check of the fridge shows that one is shriveled and moldy, and the other... well, the other looks pretty much the same.

I bring out the little tray I made (well, a cookie sheet, if I'm being honest) and Edward still doesn't look up. I set everything down on my coffee table: an old window that James silvered for me and turned into a coffee table with a simple glass top. I used to think it was cool and funky and now I look around and realize everything in my life is an attempt to look cooler than I am. To thumb my nose at the establishment when the reality is that the establishment wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole.

“Chamomile or Darjeeling?” I ask him.

“Chamomile, please, unless that's more evidence that I'm not studly enough for you.”

Fuck.

I hand him the box and the honey bear, and take a sip of my Darjeeling as I move back to the hallway that leads to the kitchen.

“I wasn't accepted,” I blurt out. He raises his head and blinks at me once.

“I applied to the graduate program at Cornell. For creative writing. They take eight students each year, and I wasn't accepted. My advisor told me that my writing was too pedestrian. That I might be able to manage a career with Harlequin, but I'd never be a real writer.”

Obviously, my massive fail has him speechless.

“I graduated summa cum laude from an Ivy League school with a degree that qualifies me to ask people if they'd like fries with their meal. I have no desire to teach. I tried that, and found that ninth graders have no appreciation for anything other than porn and video games. And I didn't like being a babysitter who read Dickens to them.

“Today I had to sit at a table with a fucking surgeon and his society wife, both alumni who think my degree makes me something that I'm not.

“I had a secretarial job for six months where my boss, who had no more than a high school diploma, reminded me daily that I had a Cornell education and was sending out her meeting notices.

“I have no idea why the hell you'd even want to talk to me, Edward Anthony Cullen. You are fuckhot and totes sweet and richer than a sultan and successful without sitting on that fucking tuffet of family money.  
  
You are creative and friendly and just so fucking nice.

“And then your mom tells me the cutest fucking story. And I can picture this 15-year-old kid who's self- conscious enough to worry that there's something wrong with him, and there I am, this fucking poster child for the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon for Nuclear Fucking Fail, and I get a glimpse that maybe, somewhere inside this perfect guy, is that kid who could identify with a fuck-up like me. And maybe I used it the wrong way. Maybe I shouldn't have teased you with it. But that fucking nickname from your shrew of a sister was like a talisman for me the rest of the day. It was something I could hold tight to and hope that kid was still in there.”

Shit. I'm crying again. I have cried more since I met this guy than I think I did when Mrs. Landingham died on West Wing. What is wrong with me?

~ E~

It takes me less than 30 seconds to upend my fucking tea cup in my haste to get over to her. What the fuck was I thinking? I'd already seen how she freaked out about showing me her apartment. How wary she'd been of upsetting me during brunch. How did I not see that while she was a free spirit, she was also affecting a false bravura whenever she was unsure?

She can refer to my poor, blighted, teenaged manhood any time she wants if it makes her feel better. God's fucking truth, I've been jealous of her confidence. I've never seen anyone reduce Laurent to such a state. Shit, he's seen Mother's gin and tonic come out her nose at something Father said or did and not batted an eye.

One brunch with Baby Swan and he's in love with this girl and laughing his ass off at the entire scene.

How can she not see the effect that she has on people?

I have no idea what happened with her at Cornell. I'm not sure that I want to know, but I refuse to believe that someone who lives creativity like this girl does can't write well enough to be accepted to their program. But that's a topic for a later date. Right now, I just want her to know what I think about her. The hell with anyone else.

Her eyes are wary when I get to her, unsure of what I'm doing or why I'm doing it. My mouth is on hers before she knows what's even going on, and suddenly, I know she needs this as much as I do.

It's no kiss at a drag show, consuming us in a moment of “holy shit, what is this?” It's no build-up of sweet kisses and tentative tongues in the dark while the sounds of nostalgia surround us. This is all-consuming and desperate. Her fingers slide into my hair and grasp like it's something she can hold onto to keep from falling off a cliff. My hands are clawing at her back like if I could just get her close enough, I could get at all that self-doubt and yank it from her, leaving only the swagger of the Baby Swan who demanded I drive her home and buy her candy.

This is lips and teeth and tongue and groping and as I'm trying to walk her backwards, she's yanking my shirt out of my pants and pulling at it. It takes only a second for my hands to slide down to her ass—the slightest pressure to alert her that I want her up—before her legs are wrapped around me, her dress hitching to her waist as she grinds against me and my knees nearly give out. I make it to the futon, praying to whatever god might be watching this to not have this rickety thing collapse as I fall back on it, Baby Swan's legs still straddling me as her mouth and teeth and tongue attack my neck. I manage to drag my shirt over my head.

Her hands are everywhere at once and even a thin layer of clothing is too much.

She whimpers as I grab her shoulders and pull her off my neck, but it's only long enough to convince her to help me get her dress off. Under the dress is a light blue bra with navy trim and polka dots, and I groan. Fucking polka dots. Who else would have such an innocent-looking bra, yet drive me so fucking insane by wearing it with tie-dye tights and combat boots?

My hands seem to take on a life of their own as I touch her, and I feel her hair against my bare chest as she leans forward, bruising my lips again before sucking my tongue into her mouth. I'm dying now, knowing that we met each other yesterday while feeling like I'm going to be joined to her forever. This is insanity, and I know it, yet I can't stop anything that I'm doing. When her hand finally—finally--gets exactly where I want it, palming my straining erection, I stop her.

“Baby Swan, there is nothing—and I do mean nothing—that I want more right now than this. But I don't want to fuck this up any more than we already seem to be doing. You are the most fucking amazing girl that I have ever met. I want you to believe that tomorrow morning, too, and you won't if we don't stop now.”

We are both panting and out of breath, and she's fucking adorable with her hair all sorts of messed up in nothing but her polka-dotted bra, her tie-dyed tights, and her big black boots. But she grins, hops up, and disappears, returning a few minutes later in a bleach-spotted navy t-shirt with cracked letters spelling out “New York University” and a pair of Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms. She tosses me a pair of navy sweats and a plain green t-shirt.

“Bathroom's over here,” she says, pointing. “I won't be skeeved if you use my toothbrush. Bedroom is through the kitchen.”

I make do with my finger and some toothpaste, and follow her directions to the bedroom. She has a full- sized bed that's sporting Hello Kitty sheets and lavender flannel pillowcases with sleeping sheep on them. She pats the empty side of the bed, the one on the same side as the alarm clock, and tells me to turn out the light.

As I lay on my back, she crawls on top of me, nestling her head between my neck and shoulder, pressing her arms against my sides, and wrapping her legs next to my thighs as she hums contentedly.

“For what it's worth, since I haven't seen it yet, it didn't feel horrible at all,” she slurs, and before I can even tell her that she can use my nickname any time she damn well pleases, I know that she's asleep.


	7. There's a Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Monday.

If I thought Mondays sucked hard before I met Rich Kid, I am now sure that Dante left out a level. There was a tenth circle, and that would be motherfucking Monday when Rich Kid goes to work.

I'd left him the side of my bed next to the alarm clock, never dreaming that he would set it for the unholy hour of 5:30 AM. In case there are some of you who aren't aware, as I wasn't, at 5:30 AM, it is still dark outside. At 5:30 AM, the birds haven't even started to make noise yet, and if you don't think that's unholy, imagine being woken at this ungodly fucking hour to have this walking bit of sex tell you he has to go into work.

What is the point of running your own company, I ask you, if it means you have to get out of bed at 5:30 AM? See, here's where the argument comes in that temping is way better than being a CEO.

Only, I'm betting CEO pays more.

I realize--as he bustles around my apartment figuring out my coffee pot and using my shower while I scratch my head, yawn, and manage to shuffle toward the sweet, sweet sound of dripping liquid caffeine-- that, aside from his brief foray home on Saturday before the drag show, Rich Kid and I have been together since Saturday afternoon.

And you thought I hated this particular Monday just because of the 5:30 AM wake-up time.

Rich Kid is going to work. I have two days left at my latest temp job, but I want to blow it off and beg him to take me to the office with him by sneaking me into his fucking laptop case or something. Don't leave, Rich Kid. Please don't fucking leave.

I'm pathetic when I ask him if maybe we could meet for lunch, but he seems genuinely sorry when he tells me he already had plans with Jasper. I should probably check in with Alice, since the last time I saw her, she was leaving to take Jasper home from the diner and for all I know, she's already engaged to the guy. Or being kept in an underground cave getting water in a bucket so he can make an Alice suit. I know absolutely nothing about this guy other than “he's friends with Edward.”

“I can call you later?” He sounds worried when he asks, and I'm just this side of coherent enough to get that.

“You'd fucking well better, Rich Kid, or I will get Laurent on the phone and we'll come hunt you down with the shrimp forks. As soon as he points out which forks they are.”

I sort of shuffle him over to the door, and he's smart enough to take my coffee and set it down on the folding bookshelf I have against the wall in the entryway before he pulls me into his arms. I'm ten different kinds of gross, what with the morning mouth and the not showering yet, but he pulls me to him and kisses me anyway.

“I've never hated the thought of going into work, Baby Swan. Until this morning. Now give me your phone.”  
  
I hand him the phone, for once plugged into the charger on the bookshelf where it belongs, and he must dial his own number, because I hear it ring. He then saves it to my directory with the CallerID, giving him my number as well. Rich Kid is smart because there's no way I could have figured this all out on my own at whatever hellacious hour this is in the morning. However, for a follow-up, the asshat has the fucking audacity to snap a picture of me as well.

“You fucking cock-knob! Why would you take that when I look like this? Why not yesterday, when I was all gussied up for brunch with Big Daddy Carlisle?”

“Well, Baby Swan, because you look so cute all sleepy and confused and under-caffeinated and that's the way I want to think about you today while I'm at work. And wait... what did you just call my father?”

I smirk at him as I push him out the door.

“Maybe the possibility that my ovaries found your father a more attractive breeding proposition will worry you enough to call me sooner. I'll miss you, Rich Kid.”

With that, I shut the door, and lean against it as I slide down to my ass. Fucking-A what have I done? ## #

I have never been so bored at a temp job. Ever. It's a receptionist gig at a career counseling service and it's got like a 15-line phone with eleventy-billion extensions.

People come in, sign into an extension, and then I field their calls. It makes it sound like they still have jobs if a receptionist answers because there is some crazy theory that it's easier to get a job when you already have a job. Yes, I know there are virtual assistants, but these are the fuckwit executives who never bothered learning about them thar tubes and such because all they had to do was sit in an office and ask for more coffee.

What the fuck, people? Is the whole idea that someone playing hard-to-get is more attractive? The person who doesn't have a job should be more attractive to employers, duh, because they can start work fucking immediately, and odds are they are desperate enough to take a lower salary than the person you have to lure away.

Bored, I yank out my cell and text Alice.

We on 4 lunch?

Alice hates text speak and will reply quickly just because I used the numeral.

Do you really have an English degree from Cornell? I find it hard to believe.

Ha. She wastes all those characters on lecturing me and doesn't even answer.

U din't answer. Lunch? Y/N Bella, you are smarter than the average teen. Ask me in English. Please. I'm begging.  
  
I sigh. She's not going to let this go.

Alice, are we on for lunch today?

You know it! Gotta hear about the fuckhot new boytoy.  
She does it just to torture me. Well, that wasted about five minutes. Now I only have two hours left until lunch. Seeing as I have all that time to piss away, I might as well get this over with. I look to make sure no one is around before speed-dialing on my phone.

Bella... to what do I owe the fucking honor of your call? Did your new boytoy leave you high and dry?

I knew it was going to be like this. Which is why I was putting it off.

“Look, Mary, I'm not the one who went abandoning people with no ride.”

No, you went abandoning people with no help getting them into their catsuit.

“Didn't I apologize for that?”

Not nearly enough.

Another glance around to make sure no one is within earshot.

“Dude, the only proper way to say 'sorry' in your world is a hummer in an alley and no way am I letting that near my mouth. Plus, I have the wrong plumbing.”

You left me with no help in the dressing room for a guy, Bells? What the fuck?

“And how many times have you left me with no ride home for a guy, Jamie? At the gallery, at the club, at the library... at my aunt's funeral... by the way, still can't believe Cousin Christopher swings that way...”

He's silent, which is bad. He always makes cracks about Cousin Christopher and how the boy's technique would put Dyson to shame. I realize that James never once thought about it. I was always there and he never had to think about it. I'm pissed that he can't even apologize.

“You know what, Jamie? I felt guilty about Saturday night. You were making me feel guilty, but that's not fucking fair. It's high time I had a life of my own. I can't be your hag forever. Maybe... maybe Vicky needs a new dresser.”

James slams the phone down and I realize I'm sitting in the middle of this huge reception area crying like I've been watching Lifetime again. Jesus God, Bella, get it together. It's not like you're Meredith Baxter or Valerie Bertinelli here. You just broke up with your Mary. A quick check of the clock shows me that ten whole minutes have gone by talking to James. Shit, even quitting my perma-job as fag hag only takes ten fucking minutes of this endless day?

I hate doing this at a job, but I have to. I'm just that fucking bored. I fire up the old mobile browser and hit my Placelikehome account, because I'm sure there are sheep to be thrown or other such fuckery. First, to see if Jamie, in a fit of pique has un-friended me... phew. Not yet. Not that he won't, eventually, but maybe he's not really that mad. Next... friend requests. I get a lot of adds from club tourists who are curious about queens. Personally, I find it a little bit demented, but who am I to judge? I usually hit ignore repeatedly, accepting a few here and there from people I met on temp jobs. After I get through about four or five , I see a pair of green fucking eyes staring at me.

Edward Anthony Cullen the Not-Quite-Second, Placelikehome CEO, has a request in there. I note he's already added me as a friend, the sneaky fuck. Must be nice to have the code at your fingertips. No, the rat bastard has requested to add me as his girlfriend. Confirm or deny? A quick look at his profile shows him now listed as “in a relationship,” with over 1000 comments beneath the status change.

I'm trying not to hyperventilate. If he could add himself as my friend, he could have added me as his girlfriend, too. He's giving me an option. An option to have 1000 fucking people comment on my relationship status, that is.

I close the damn thing and put my head down. I wonder if I can leave a temp job if I call the agency and tell them I'm not feeling well. I'd be telling the truth. I'm about to puke all over this fucking desk.

~ E~

Even as I'm doing it, I know that it's wrong, but I can't seem to help myself. I manually add Baby Swan as my friend. I don't go digging through her profile; I have a bit more self-control than that, but I can't bear the thought of not being able to chat with her today if she happens to be online. I forgot to ask her what sort of temp job she was working this week, so I'm not sure if she even has Web access.

My next move is pure, unadulterated testosterone. She's listed as single. I have some strange desire to claim her, so I send her a relationship request. I'm second-guessing it the minute that I send it, but I don't remove it. It's stupid, and immature, and I should just come right out and ask her where she wants to go from here, but this requires less courage.

Jasper, of course, sees me online.

In a relationship, Edward?

Before I answer, I click over to his profile and notice that not only is he also now listed as “in a relationship,” but Alice has already confirmed it.

Not before you were, apparently. How was the weekend with Bella's friend?

I can tell by the length of time it takes him to reply that he's thinking about how he wants to play it.

Edward, I think I'm going to marry that girl.

Not the response I was expecting. This is Jasper, for fuck's sake. Jasper thinks marriage is for suckers.

Speechless, huh? Yeah, I know. I can't figure it out either. How did brunch with hippie chick go? Esme pick her bones clean?

Esme loved her, Jas.  
  
What?

I know. I couldn't believe it either. They went off to Esme's sitting room and I swear they were fucking drinking together up there. Carlisle told me I was fucked. I think he's right.

Shit. You like a girl that Esme likes? Yeah, buddy, I think you are fucked, but good. Lunch later on?

Yeah. I'll see you there.

I think Jasper and my father are both right. I'm fucked. I'm even more sure of it when another chat window pops up on my screen. Rosalie.

So, baby brother, I hear you've managed to bring home The Girl With Whom Our Parents Are Well Pleased. I take it you spoke with Mother? You know it. Have you shown her Mr. Horrible yet? ;) No, Rosalie. STFU.

Mother wants you to bring her for brunch again on Sunday. This time I'm coming home to meet her, too. Gotta make sure she's good enough for my baby bro.

No, no, no. God, no. Not Rosalie. Not brunch with Rosalie. Even Jasper is afraid of Rose, and he's grown up with her unique brand of bitchcraft. Shit.

I think she's busy this weekend, Rose. Then make her un-busy. Or are you afraid I'll chew her up and spit her out? Rose... Talk to you later, Mr. Horrible.

Fuck. I knew it was too much to ask that Bella's brunch with my parents go well. Now I'm supposed to make her run the gauntlet again, this time with the woman Grendel's mother would run from. Today is going downhill fast, and I still have an interview to get through before lunch with some blogger who thinks the site is really a government plot to invade citizens' privacy. I'm still not sure why PR thought this would be a good idea. Jasper better be ready to drink at lunch. I'll be wearing a tin foil hat from the blogger, I'm sure.

~ B~

“So did you fuck him yet?” Alice always does know how to get a conversation started. “How many times have I told you, I'm not the dirty whore you seem to think I am?”  
  
“I don't know. It's not that I necessarily think you're a whore, Bella. More like 'been in a drought so long she forgot she has working parts.'”

“Alice...” “Seriously, Bella. Use 'em or lose 'em.”

We are sitting in a booth at the Mediterranean place we love, splitting the vegetarian platter which always has too much food on it. Actually, Alice is eating. I'm poking at it with a pita.

“He added me as a friend today on the site without even asking. I guess you can do that when you are CEO.”

“And? I'm sensing there's more to this story than you're telling me. Did he deface your profile? Post an album of pictures of whatever hot 'n heavy action you did allow yourself to get this weekend?”

“I already told you, no action Alice. Fuck me.” “That's his job, and you're claiming he didn't.” I roll my eyes at her.

“You aren't kidding, are you? You really didn't get naked with him. Shit, did you wear those stretched-out, pilled, and faded pajama pants again? Please tell me you didn't. Please, Bella, I'm begging you. Please tell me that the Jack Skellington PJs never saw the light of day.”

“He saw them Saturday night, and he still took me to brunch.” “Christ on a Ritz Bit, Bella! How many fucking times do we have to go over this? Guys are visual, and the visual that says 'hobo' means no action for your lady parts outside of a battery-powered friend.” “And how many times do I have to tell you, Alice, that maybe I don't want a quick fuck.” She narrows her eyes and suddenly, I'm fucking terrified. “Shit, Bella, you are seriously falling for this guy, aren't you?”

“You are batshit, Alice. I hardly know him.”

“You spent the whole weekend with him. You met the parents. You let him sleep over, but didn't fuck him, and you went out of your way to show him your rattiest, most drunken-sorority-girl-hangover fashion to make sure you didn't fuck him. You're falling for him!” she crowed.

“That's not true.” “Have you shaved your legs since you met him?” I hang my head, and that's apparently answer enough.  
  
“Aha! Ratty pajamas and unshaven legs: the universal girl reminder to not drop your pants for a guy.”

See, here's the thing. I know Alice has already slept with Jasper. She's definitely a try-before-you-buy kind of girl. It doesn't make her a slut, just efficient. She figures there's no use investing time and energy in getting to know someone if he's a sloppy kisser or a premature ejaculator. Alice doesn't ever go off half- cocked and in her rules, neither should he. Ergo, she doesn't understand that I might not want to hop in bed with Rich Kid, no matter what sort of action item my ovaries are currently trying to sneak onto the agenda.

I need to change the subject here, and fast. This is getting way too fucking close to therapy and I don't want to even think about the idea that I might be falling for this guy. I may be fun to spend time with, but Mr. Big Shot Internet CEO isn't exactly going to take someone like me to the next fucking South-by-Southwest to play

Meet the Geeks. He didn't even tell me he had a sister until after brunch, for fuck's sake, and it's not like he let me meet her, either. Maybe the whole “add as boyfriend” thing is a test to see if I'm going to go all boil-the-rabbit on him.

“So, Alice, tell me about Jasper. Rich Kid didn't say much about him.” Alice fucking sighed. Sighed! “Bella, that is the man I'm going to marry.”

“Shit, Alice, the orgasms must have been mind-blowing. Does he have a cock that hits your G-spot perfectly each time or something?”

“Honestly, Bella? The sex is fantastic, but that's not even it. It's like I've been waiting for him my whole life. I mean, he even does this totally fucked-up shit where he goes out and re-enacts the Civil War on the weekends? I mean, hello people, we already know who won, right? All I could think about was, 'I wonder if that's something we could do together.' How fucked up is that, I ask you? Have you seen what they wore back then? Hideous.”

“Wow, Alice, that sounds... shit, you are totes fucking gone, girl! When are you seeing him again?” “The second we both get out of work. He drove me in and he's picking me up.”

Now I'm jealous. She's already planning her wedding in her head and he drove her to work and is picking her up. All I got out of Rich Kid was a promise to call me. And he hasn't even done that.

“Dessert, Bella?”

“Nah... I gotta get back to the phones before someone figures out that none of those stiffs has a job. I'll talk to you later, when you aren't boffing General Lee's brains out.”

I head back to loser central wondering what's wrong with me. I'm a fucking slave to the green-eyed monster that things are going so well for Alice, but unable to accept Rich Kid's relationship request? I think a nice game of Tetris is called for. Tetris always helps me think.

~ E~

Jasper and I decide to hit up the MSG Buffet for lunch. Pathetic, I know, but we don't feel like waiting for food or dealing with wait staff the whole hour. I need to hear about how he's going to marry a girl he met less than 72 hours ago, and he needs to listen to me obsess about Baby Swan and how I sent her a request at 6:30 this morning that she hasn't replied to yet. And I know she has Placelikehome for mobile, because I may have broken down and checked her account.

As we sit down with plates piled to a level that could feed a Third World country for a year, I launch my opening pitch.

“So, marriage, eh, Jas? I'm guessing that means she's not opposed to taking it up the pooper?”

This is the kind of thing we say all the time, so I'm obviously a bit shocked when Jasper reaches over the table, scattering chopsticks and tea cups and grabs my shirt.

“If you fucking ever—ever—make that kind of crack about her again, Edward, so help me, I will rip your fucking tongue out with my own little fingers.”

“Jasper, shit man, I'm sorry. It's really like that?” He runs his fingers through his hair and exhales.

“Yeah, dude, it's really fucking like that. I'm sorry... she's just... I don't know, man. She's everything and I know that I only met her Saturday night, but it took everything I had in me to keep from throwing her over my shoulder and catching the next plane to Vegas, you know?

“I take it things with the hippie chick didn't go quite so well?”

“That's just it, Jasper; I thought they went great. She met Carlisle and Esme and was off doing shots or some shit with my mother. Carlisle was besotted in the first 20 minutes. Leaving her this morning was so painful I almost called in. I never call in. But I don't know where things stand, I guess.”

“Do you know what your problem is, Edward? You are constantly afraid to lay it all out there. When you started the site, you didn't even tell your parents. They had to get calls from their friends about their son the Internet wunderkind before you fessed up. Don't fuck things up with this girl because you're afraid.”

I nod, but continue shoving cashew chicken into my mouth at a furious pace so I don't have to acknowledge anything he's said.

“Don't think I don't realize you're avoiding the conversation here, Pretty Boy. When are you going to see her again?”

I answer with my mouth full to annoy him, “I dunno.” “You what? You don't know? You didn't make plans?” I swallow before answering this time, suddenly panicked.

“Um, I said I'd call her today?” “Have you called her yet?” “Um, no?”  
  
“No? No? Edward, this is why you never fucking date anyone for longer than a one-night stand. You are an absolute idiot when it comes to being a normal, social, human being. I swear, if you weren't so fucking pretty that girls throw themselves at you constantly, you'd never get any tail at all.

“Now go, get your ass back to your office and call the girl. By now she probably thinks you aren't interested, you asstard.”

Shit. I know he's right, and I'm wishing I had a brick wall to beat my head against instead of the palm of my hand. My mother taught me better manners than this. If I fuck things up with this girl before Sunday's brunch with the she-devil, Esme might call for my head on a platter. I'm sure Rosalie would be happy to oblige her.


	8. There's Wallowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's wallowing

Getting back from lunch, I realize that it is now one-fucking-seventeen in the afternoon and there has been no call from Rich Kid. I check recent calls. I check voice mail in case I missed him. I even check my stupid Placelikehome account to see if he sent me a message there while he was stuck in a meeting or something.

Nothing.

I've talked to Alice. I've broken off fag hag status with James. And there is no call or message or fucking messenger pigeon from Edward.

I lay my forehead on the desk and try not to cry. Who the hell adds someone as a girlfriend on a social network but doesn't pick up the phone, I ask you? What kind of a toasterfuck does that? I shut off my cell, stick in the lunchbox, and decide only chocolate can remedy the situation.

Only the chocolate is a Snickers.

It is at this point that I start to cry. I call my temp agency. Apologize profusely for being sick. Tell them I have to leave immediately, and alert the director of the zombies in their cubes that I'm very, very ill. Hope it's food poisoning, but might be one of those Norwalk things like they have on cruise ships. I leave as she furiously scrubs every surface of the reception area with Clorox Wipes.

As I wait at the bus stop, I turn on my phone for exactly two minutes. There is only one person I want to see right now, and I'm making that call and shutting the phone back off immediately.

“YO!”

“Mitt-Mitt? Can you come over?”

“Shit, Beauty, are you crying?”

“Yeah. So can you come over? I'm on my way home now.”

“Car running today or bus?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, I think we should scrape the VIN off your car and let them tow it to dead car heaven, but that's another kettle of fish. I'll meet you at the place in 45, Beauty.”

I shut the phone off again as the bus pulls up. Hopefully, Mitt-Mitt will arrive with chocolate that isn't packed with peanuts.

# # #

I'm already in bed when I hear the door open, and once again, I'm glad that I gave Mitt a key. He comes to my rescue all too often. I'm hunkered down under the covers with my feet dangling off the edge of the bed because I can't stand them being double-layered right now, bottle of Patron and a shot glass next to me, and the Jack Skellington PJ bottoms out for a repeat showing along with my Sandman t-shirt and my striped hoodie.

“Jesus Double Stuff Christ, Beauty. Hood is up? Socks are on? Chica, how can things be so bad you are wearing socks?”

Mitt is observant. I never wear socks. And I'm not just wearing any old socks; these are primo wallowing socks. These are the socks that I found at Target when I was sending a Christmas box to Marines stationed overseas and ended up with two pair too many for the number of Marines I was dividing them up for. They are warm and soft inside and dyed an unfortunate pink after my red Emily the Strange shirt ended up in the load with the whites.

He also yanks the earbuds out of my ears and rolls his eyes at me.

“That better not be Damien Rice you are listening to on that thing. Why don't we just go adopt you some cats and call it a day?”

“I met a guy!” I wail.

“Well, that doesn't sound like something that the President should have declared a National Day of Mourning for, Beauty, and I don't see any flags at half-staff. Come out of bed and I'll make you mac 'n cheese 'n tuna for dinner and you can tell me all about the big mean boy who pulled your hair and made you cry.”  
I slide out from under the covers, shuffling after him to the kitchen, pulling on my Cthulhu slippers first.  
  
“So, Beauty...” He's leading into something; I can tell.

“I talked to my brother just before you called me. Heard there was a little bit of hair-pulling earlier today.”

Shit. Busted. Here I was hoping I'd gotten to him first. No such luck.

“Look, Beauty, you know he loves you. He just thinks with his dick. All guys do. He's just more of a... thinker... than the rest of us.”

How am I supposed to resist that grin? I roll my eyes, give him the smile he's been working so fucking hard for, and then launch myself into the hug I know he's been dying to give me.

How the hell James ended up with a brother as great as Emmett I will never know. Asshat doesn't deserve him.

I met James and Emmett freshman year in high school. Well, not exactly in high school, since I was at an all-girl school, but James did the musicals at my school. We always needed boys and he and his brother went to the all-boy school a few streets over. James was my age, and Emmett a year-and-change older, and poor

Mitt-Mitt got stuck driving his drama queen brother back home after rehearsals. As Jamie and I got to be friends, so did Emmett and I. He was a lovable, bumbling guy who just sort of blurted out whatever was on his mind. Much like me, he has no filter between his brain and his mouth, only his lack of filter usually got us into a shitload of trouble. As teens, the three of us went to see Phantom Menace and Jamie and I immediately decided that Emmett was our very own Jar-Jar Binks, dubbing him Mitt-Mitt McCarty. The name stuck. Unfortunately, so did his name for me, based on his claim that I have my nose stuck in a book somewhere and wouldn't even notice a beast in front of me until I tripped over him.

Yeah. I tripped over a fucking Beast alrighty. Only my Beast posts it on his very own social network.

“Okay, Beauty, spill. Who's the guy?”

“EdwardCullentheNot-Quite-Second.”

He erupts exactly as expected. “Oh shit no! Beauty, you did not just try to cough that one by me. Are you kidding me? He's Satan Incarnate! How can you do this to me?”

I think I forgot to mention that Emmett is a writer. Well, specifically, he's a writer for one of the biggest technology publications out there. He's convinced that the recent boom in social networks is really a front for a government conspiracy to build Big Brother right under our noses by mining our most pertinent sheep- throwing details. Needless to say, he doesn't have a profile on any of them.

“Mitt! I swear; I had no idea. I went to the gallery with Jamie, who ditched me for some hot piece, and the next thing I know, we're at The Royal drinking Sweet Nectar of the Gods, and he tells me he owns this little Internet company I may have heard of.”

“Beauty! I met him face-to-face this morning. The boys upstairs wanted me to actually interview him before I write any more pieces on his nefarious plot.”

I squinch up my face and look at him sideways out of my single, partially-opened eye. Sort of like Popeye without the corncob pipe.  
  
“So what did you think of him?”

Emmett sighs dramatically before flopping into the only other kitchen chair while he waits for the elbow macaroni to boil.

“Honestly, Beauty, he seemed nice. He didn't get all asshole on me like the other CEOs I met did. Seemed very down-to-earth. Swore up and down he's not in on any government plot.”

I roll my eyes. Of course, I've been telling him this all along. But Mitt is a little bonk when it comes to his theories.

“So, how did he seem when you spoke to him?” I attempt to ask this casually, but, of course, Mitt-Mitt's not buying it for a second.

“I already told you. He seemed very nice, if a little distracted. I swear he kept checking his CrackBerry every two seconds. I have no idea what was so important.”

Shit. I do. He's waiting for a response from me. Which I've been trying to forget about.

“Wait, was he looking for a message from you, Beauty?”

“Well, maybe... but he said he'd call me and he hasn't called!”

“Bella, honest to fucking god, girl, you don't need to sit and wait for some guy to call you. Take charge, woman!”

“Maybe he's not fucking interested, Emmett! Did you ever think of that?”

“Bella, if you had absolutely anything to do with the way that man was obsessively checking his CrackBerry, then he sure as shit is fucking interested. Fucking-A, I'm so busy blowing sunshine up your ass here, the flowers will die from lack of rain.”

I'm biting off all the skin around my fingernails like a crackhead while he's mixing neon orange powder, fake butter, and a can of tuna. I still don't have any milk.

“Where's your phone, Beauty? Send him a text.” “It's uh... kind of... turned off in the lunch box.” This is the part where Mitt-Mitt goes spastic Gungan.

“What, what? Beauty, what kind of fucking mental patient shuts off her phone when she's waiting for a call? Were you dropped on your fucking head as a child? Eat some lead paint for breakfast every day for the past ten years? How can he call you when your phone is off?”

“I need chocolate. And fucking Tetris. You got chocolate, Mitt-Mitt?” “What I have is a head case for a friend. Go get your damn phone, Beauty. And take off the wallowing uniform. No just cause. Permanent furlough on that shit.”

“Can I keep the...”

“Slippers off, too. And bring me the iPod and your laptop. I'm taking that emo music off and giving you some more deathcore and techno. The way you've abused this afternoon, you'd think wallowing was a fucking art form.”

~ E~

Shit, shit, shit. I got back to the office and did exactly what Jasper told me to do; I called her. At 1:23 PM.

It is now 4:33 PM and I have called her exactly 19 times, once every ten minutes. It goes directly to voicemail.

I should have known better than to freak her out with the manual add and the whole relationship thing. Why am I such a fucking moron when it comes to dealing with anyone I actually like? I do so much better with girls who just want to fuck. When I don't talk to them the next day, they figure it was a one-night stand, not a social fucking cripple who can't figure out what to say or how to say it.

I'm supposed to be looking for more input on user interface. We had a lot of resistance from users with our last site redesign, and made a few changes. Now I need to see if we've mollified the angry mob, but instead, I'm sitting here second-guessing everything from the second I left Bella's apartment this morning.

I should have stayed. I should have waited and driven her into work like Jasper did for Alice. I should have canceled my lunch plans with Jasper. I should have called her the second I walked into my office. I shouldn't have added our friend relationship without asking her. I definitely shouldn't have sent the relationship request.

Actually, when I look at the whole picture, maybe I shouldn't have ever been born in the first place, thus avoiding today ever happening in the first place.

Of course, it's at that moment my personal line rings, which means it can only be one of the only two people to blame for the travesty of my birth. I answer it, hoping against hope that it is Carlisle rather than Esme. Obviously, something I have done has offended the gods, because it is, in fact, my mother.

“Edward!” “Good afternoon, Mother. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“Edward Anthony, don't take that tone with me. You and I both know that this call bring neither of us any pleasure whatsoever.”

“How can I help you, Mother?”

I'm trying to keep my tone civil, but I'm already counting down the seconds until I can make the next phone call to Bella.  
  
“Edward, you must promise not to laugh.”

I sit up a little straighter in my chair. This is bound to be good.

“I need a favor and you cannot repeat this conversation to anyone.”

My god, if she tells me that she's fucking the pool boy I'm going to crawl under my desk and hope Jasper is the one to call the white coats for me.

“Edward, darling, what is a 'spork?'”

I have to actually grab my cock in my hand to keep from pissing myself, I am laughing so hard. I manage to choke out an “I'll call you right back, Mother,” before sprinting to the bathroom.

Sporks. Why the hell is Esme calling to ask me about sporks? Five minutes later, I'm back on the phone with Mother. “Mother, I apologize. I had an emergency.”

“Edward, I find your humor at my expense insulting. Now, please tell me exactly what this thing is.” Deep breaths, Edward. You can do this.

“A spork, Mother, is a plastic utensil shaped like a spoon. However, it has tines cut into the tip so that it can be used in a fork-like manner as well.”

She's silent for a moment, and I'm beginning to think that she has gone into shock. “Edward, can one buy these sporks somewhere?”

“Mother, I'm not entirely sure. I'm pretty sure they have them at KFC, so maybe you could call and ask where they get them. Why are you looking to buy sporks in the first place?”

“Well, dear, Laurent and I were discussing the menu for brunch on Sunday and he suggested that Bella would be more comfortable if we were to use sporks at the table. I do want to make her feel at ease. We both know that your sister can be a bit... abrasive... at times.”

“Mother, dock an hour of Laurent's pay or something to make up for him wasting our time with this. Bella does not require sporks at brunch. She has him wrapped around her little finger, doesn't she?”

“Who, dear?”

“Never mind, Mother. Standard place settings should be fine. Tell Laurent that I'll try to work with Vivian before Sunday on the shrimp forks.”

“Thank you, darling. Shrimp isn't going to be on the menu, though. Also, who is Vivian?” I'm banging my head on my keyboard when I look up to see that a new message has arrived in my inbox.

“Mother, as entertaining as this conversation has been, I really need to go now.” I hang up without so much as telling her goodbye.

~ B~

Emmett has taken off with a screwdriver to scrape the VIN off my car and remove the plates, leaving me sitting here with no babysitter and a laptop in front of me.

Staring at me, taunting me, are two buttons. Confirm or deny, Bella? You know damn well if you confirm, every nerd blogger out there like Emmett is going to have a field day trying to figure out who you are. Won't it be a hoot when all they discover is that you are an Ivy-educated temp who carries a Star Wars lunch box for a purse?

This is stupid. I'm Bella Fucking Swan. I don't care what other people think about me. I don't care what they say. I don't.

Oh, wait. What's this little drop-down box? I'm not sure I saw that before. Would you like to add additional details about how you met? Yes/No.

Would I like to add additional details? Does the fucking Nile run North? Of course I want to add additional details. Select the Yes option. Click the Confirm button.

How did you meet?

I type, “Edward was attending an auction for sex slaves. I'd been offered by my adoptive parents, who no longer wished to spend money feeding me.”

Submit. And wait.

It takes exactly 7 minutes and 23 seconds for Björk's “Violently Happy” (the Massey-Other Mix, natch) to play through while I bop around the room waiting to see what reply I might receive. As it ends, I decide enough time has passed to check for a response. I don't want to seem too desperate.

Aha! Success. Edward Cullen has acknowledged our relationship, but would like me to confirm details of how we met. What? He refuses to acknowledge the slave auction? If he even put the gallery in, I'm un- friending him.

Bella was midway through gender reassignment surgery when we met and felt an instant connection, agreeing to reverse previous work completed in order to stay a woman and become my future wife.

Well, damn, faux engagement aside, I have way too many friends on my account currently undergoing that process to leave that little gem up.

Time for a judicious edit:

“Edward was stripping his way through MIT when I took pity on him and hired him as my overpaid pool boy. The rest is history.”

Dance intermission: Bowie's “Dead Man Walking” from the soundtrack for The Saint should do the trick. It's slightly under seven minutes, but that's still long enough, right?

Yes, yes, it is.

Bella's gypsy caravan broke down by the side of the road in Nebraska. After loading their alpacas into the back of my pick-up, I drove her on to the nearest town.

She got help for the rest of her family, but decided to stay with me instead.

Good one, Rich Kid, but not perfect. Not quite.

“Edward picked me up at an art gallery when my BFF drag queen abandoned me for a piece of tail. After taking me for coffee and Snickers pie, we had our first date at a drag show, after which he asked me to be his girlfriend via a social network.”

Sounds a bit like crackfic, but hey, sometimes the real story is funnier than anything else. ~ *~

The relief I feel at her first reply nearly makes me lightheaded. Her additional comments, of course, make me laugh so hard people come running to my office to make sure I haven't gone completely over the edge. Generally, I don't laugh at work, and between the spork conversation with my mother and Bella's version of our first meeting, I'm apparently cause for concern.

Someone has gone so far as to call in Jasper, who makes his appearance as I'm formulating my reply. “Edward?” he asks warily. “You okay, man?” “I'm fine, Jasper.

Just got a message back from Bella on my relationship request.” “Did you talk to her?”

“No. Her phone is going directly to voice mail every time I call.”

“Edward... exactly how many times have you called her?”

“Twenty at last count. But I'm busy here. I can't try again. I have to reply to her.”

I hear a distinctive thump as Jasper bangs his head against my desk.

“Edward, you called her 20 times? She's going to think you are a complete psycho when she turns her phone back on!”

Shit. That I didn't think about. Is 20 calls really stalker-type behavior?

I have no time to contemplate how nuts she's going to think I am, because she's sending me an instant message on the site's chat system.

“Rich Kid, you there?”

“Yes.”

“Just sent back the real version. It's funnier than anything we can come up with on our own, so check it out. Do you have plans after work?”

“Not yet?”

“Yes, you do. Pick up a pizza, and stop at the store. Ben & Jerry's has this new flavor out called Mission to Marzipan. Bring both here. And I'm not changing.”

~E~

I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about, but I agree anyway.

“Oh, and Mitt eats a lot. So make sure there's a lot of pizza. He probably won't have any ice cream, but you could prepare, just in case.”

I wonder if Mitt is a pet I don't know about, and wonder exactly how much it could eat. ## #

An hour later, I'm standing in front of Bella's open door. A gigantic man has opened the door for me, and it takes me a minute to place him.

“Aren't you...?”

“Emmett McCarty, Edward. We met this morning.”

“How do you know Baby Sw-... Bella?”

“It should be me asking you that question, not the other way around, don't you think?”

Baby Swan hasn't mentioned any siblings, and he doesn't have the same last name, so that can't be it. Is it possible she already had a boyfriend she never mentioned?

I hold out the pizza (I went with a full sheet to cover all my bases) as a peace offering, and Emmett's eyes light up. He takes the pizza and heads off, leaving me alone at the open door. Unsure whether that's permission to enter or encouragement to leave, I cross my fingers and walk in, shutting the door behind me. I have the ice cream that took me three stores to find. I'm hoping it's my admission ticket.

Following the pizza, I find Baby Swan in the kitchen, wearing pajamas. Well, the same pajama bottoms I'd seen the other night. She's added a downright creepy t-shirt, a hoodie at least three sizes too big with the hood up over her hair, and the strangest green slippers I've ever seen.

She takes one look at me, grins, and says “The Old Ones, Dude. Show some respect.” I have no idea what she's talking about, but I offer her the bag with the ice cream.

She thanks me with a kiss, and I'm just starting to deepen it when I'm suddenly yanked backward. Emmett McCarty has managed to pull me off Baby Swan while eating pizza; he hasn't even put his slice down to deal with me .  
  
I'm a little frightened.

“Look, Cullen. You don't get to waltz in here with pizza and Beauty's ice cream and think it makes everything better. Why the fuck didn't you call her?”

Now I'm really frightened. He looks like he wants to kill me.

“I did call her. I called her several times! It kept going right to voice mail!”

He turns to her. “Beauty...”

I watch her cross to her lunch box and take out her phone.

She hangs her head as she turns her phone on and checks her incoming calls and voice mails, and I can see her eyes widening as she scrolls.

“Twenty. Fucking. Calls. Twenty!” she yells. “Rich Kid, what the fuck?

“Mitt-Mitt, you gotta see this! They come at exactly ten minute intervals. It's like a fucking robot was calling me!

“Rich Kid, Dude, why so many calls?”

Now I'm embarrassed. Maybe Jasper was right and I don't have a clue how to talk to people, much less have a relationship with someone. I'm lost here, and don't take the time to come up with a witty response, so I go with the simplest answer.

“I regretted not calling you the second I left your apartment. I missed you and just wanted to hear your voice.”

There. Now they both know I'm a complete freak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jar-Jar Binks is a Gungan. Get it now? Also, here in New York, where the world is civilized, we have sheets of pizza, about the size of a super-sized cookie sheet. We get them for parties and large families, and the pieces are cut in squares. My mind boggles that there are apparently many of you out there who do not know the joys of a full fucking sheet of pizza. I weep for you all.


	9. There's Piano and a Lightbulb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's piano. And a lightbulb.

“Mitt-Mitt?”

He's already ahead of me, placing slices of pizza on a sheet of tin foil to take with him. It's a crying shame that he got all the sensitivity in his family when they were passing it out, because James sure as shit could have used the share he was due. Emmett wraps up about half the fucking sheet, kisses me on the forehead, and lets himself out. Rich Kid is leaning against the counter near the sink, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger again. This time, I'm wondering if it's me he's keeping from nose-wiggling into oblivion.

I wait until I hear the door close behind Emmett before I speak, edging closer to him as if he'll take off at any moment.

“Edward?” He doesn't look at me, just stares at the floor.

“Edward, no one has ever called me 20 times in a single week, much less a single afternoon, much less left all these adorable and increasingly spastic messages. I bet there are girls out there who dream of being called 20 times by someone as fuckawesome as you.

“You know, maybe you and I are so busy fucking up constantly and missing each other that we aren't ever going to be on the same page until we cut out this second-guessing each other crap. I waited all morning for your call, while you were waiting for me to reply to you online. Then, you called all afternoon while I obsessed over replying to you online.”

He finally looked at me. “Why on god's green acre would you obsess over replying to me, Baby Swan?”

“I just don't get it, Edward. Honestly, I don't. You're rich. You're gorgeous. You're successful. You were on the Time 100 list last year. I Googled that shit. Why the hell would you want a fuck-up like me?”

“Jesus, Baby Swan, do you think I'm not asking myself the same damn questions? I'm completely clueless when it comes to relationship shit. I've never had anything other than one-night stands because I have no fucking clue how to talk to people. Yet here you are, unafraid of what anyone thinks of you, able to talk to anyone anywhere about anything. Fucking-A, Bella, you managed to win over my society mother and our butler in under an hour. Why the hell would you want a socially retarded, borderline hermit like me?”

Honestly, I'm so stupid. We are both so stupid.  
  
“Rich Kid, will you promise that when we get all squirrelly like this we fucking talk to each other? Today was a veritable smorgasbord of miscommunication. Neither one of us should be allowed out in public as incapable we are of the most basic forms of human interaction. Jesus Chocolate-Dipped Christ, you ask me to be your girlfriend online in some fit of high-school-angst, and then I shut my phone off like a psychopath because you didn't call me. We could be a fucking afterschool special: Why Nerds Shouldn't Date.”

I finally make him laugh, and it's like the Cloud of Potential Relationship Doom has lifted and the sun breaks through.

“You know, Baby Swan, my mom likes you. Not only does she expect you at brunch this weekend to meet my sister, but she called me about sporks.”

Oh my hell. How did I miss this? By not answering my phone, I have apparently caused some sort of mental break to occur. If I call 911, will they supply the men in the white coats, or do I need to call someone special for that?

“Edward, you just said your mother is interested in sporks.”

“Yes, I did. She is. Laurent decided to fuck with her and say you'd feel more comfortable at brunch if she had sporks. She wanted to know where she could get some before Sunday since apparently, her silver set didn't come with them.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Could I make something like that up, Baby Swan? She wants you to be comfortable, and I don't blame her at all. If sporks would help, I'd go buy some myself, as I'm sure my sister will be bringing her flying monkeys.”

“Well, if Laurent is so concerned about me meeting your sister, and you claim she is a witch, why the fuck doesn't he go fetch me a pail of water instead of harassing your poor mother about sporks for shit's sake? Does he have a cell? I can call him and plot this week. I can grab your sister's ruby slippers while he runs interference.”

Edward rolls his eyes, and I start mentally planning what outfit of mine could possibly piss off his sister enough to entertain both of us, as well as Laurent, since he's going out of his way to fuck with everyone.

Wait. Sunday. Sunday.

“Edward, James has a pageant on Sunday.”

“A what?”

“A pageant. I have to dress her. At least, I'm assuming I still have to dress her. He's not speaking to me after I left her to baby powder her own ass on Saturday and then blew her off to leave The Royal with you.”

“Well, what time do you have to be there if you are dressing him? Or her? Or whatever?” “Noon, to start setting up and getting things ready. It starts at two.”  
  
The little hamster in my brain finally starts running on the wheel that the fucker should have been on all day. If the hamster hadn't been laying down on the job, I wouldn't have been acting so brain-dead about shit with Rich Kid.

“Hey, Edward? Do you think Esme and Big Daddy Carlisle and the Wicked Bitch of Loch Ness would like to meet me at the pageant instead of brunch? Then we wouldn't have to worry about Laurent knocking over a KFC for the spork/napkin/wet wipe trifecta.”

He seems to hesitate for just a minute before he breaks into a huge grin.

“I think Rosalie would love to meet you somewhere you are comfortable, Baby Swan. And Carlisle and Esme are always open to new cultural experiences. Now, the real question is, what would one wear to a drag pageant? Esme will want to make sure she is suitably attired.”

The more I think about this, the more I realize I am genius and this is an idea full of win. Rich Kid must agree, because he's pressing me against the wall as his mouth has its wicked way with my ovary-controlled lips. For once, I'm going to let them do whatever they want. His hands are pulling my top out of my skirt and sliding up my ribs and his knee is parting my legs, letting me grind up against him.

“Rich Kid? He hums against my neck. “Rich Kid, are we doing this now?”

The humming and the licking stop and I wonder—not for the first time—if I'm missing a very crucial part of my brain function that would allow me to get laid. It's like I have a shut-off valve that instantly releases the brain-to-mouth filter and cockblocks me every time.

“Baby Swan? When did we switch places? You became the responsible grown-up and I became the impulsive free spirit?”

“That one's easy, Rich Kid. That would have been the second all the blood flowed from your head to Mr. Horrible and he started running the show. Mr. Horrible is far more immature about these sorts of things than my ovaries, although I'm sure, given enough time and effort, he could convince them. However, I'm hungry... wanna take me to dinner?”

Rich Kid has the most evil grin on his face when he answers. “Absolutely, Baby Swan. Let's go somewhere with sporks.” “Original Recipe, Rich Kid?” “Absolutely. Extra Crispy is for pussies.”

~ E~

Something isn't right with Baby Swan.

We've spent the entire week together. I ran home to my apartment one day at lunch to grab some clothes and toiletries and have been staying at Bella's apartment ever since.

But something is wrong. I just can't put my finger on it.

For starters, she wants no part of even seeing my apartment. When I suggest we split the week or visit or even go there to water my plants, she balks.

She says she's afraid that she'll see how filthy fucking rich I am and get scared. Like avoiding the apartment altogether isn't scared?

The second thing is a little bit more worrisome. Or not worrisome, curious. Okay, not curious. Frustrating. Baby Swan and I haven't gotten past second base.

Don't get me wrong; I'm the one that stopped her in the first place last weekend, and I'm not interested in rushing her, but Jasper is already having sex so incredible that it's fried his brain and he's talking marriage.

Meanwhile, I haven't even seen Baby Swan with her bra off.

Fuck me, I sound like some horny teenager, but you'd think that since we've moved in together for all intents and purposes, we'd be having some sort of sex, right?

Oral, maybe? Isn't that what all the kids are doing these days when they don't want to go all the way? Instead, I'm trying to wake up before the alarm every morning so I can rub one out in the shower.

I'm living with my girlfriend and I'm still masturbating like a 14-year-old with a new Hustler. Something doesn't seem right here.

She finished out her temp job and turned down another one. Today she's here with me in my office and I asked her to look over some of our user documentation for the hell of it. I suggested she play with it a bit and see if there was anything she thought we could improve.

She's rewritten it entirely by lunchtime, along with a new fanfic based on meeting me. The user documentation rewrite is pure genius and I want to fire half the team responsible for the old one. The fanfic, she reports, is being summarily dismissed as utter crap by reviewers and she is sitting here laughing uproariously as negative review after negative review comes into her inbox. When I look at her like she is insane, she throws sheep at me. Dumbest fucking application ever let loose on the site. Figures that Baby Swan would love it.

Now we are on our way downstairs to meet Jasper for lunch. I was hoping to do a romantic picnic in my office, but Baby Swan is insisting on lunch with Jasper so she can “verify his worthiness.” She followed that up with an order to “make it so, Number One” in a British accent that is nothing short of spectacular fail.  
Jasper, I can tell immediately, is unsure what to make of her. Today, she's wearing a t-shirt with what appears to be a Mexican wrestler on it with a gigantic melon-colored skirt that could house an entire three- ring circus in the fabric. Baby Swan informs me that the wrestler is something called a “StrongBad” and I should show some respect.

Most of the time I'm not even sure she's speaking English.  
  
“So, Jasper,” she begins. “Before I can allow you to continue your assignations with my friend Ms. Brandon, I need to assure myself of your intentions.”  
Jasper's eyes are now as big as saucers and I fall back just a bit to walk behind them. This will be much more entertaining if they forget I'm even here.

“My... my... intentions?” he stutters. Bella stops walking and I nearly crash into her. “Mr. Whitlock, here I thought you were raised to be a true Southern gentleman.”

I notice here that her Southern accent is much better than the British one she tried earlier, although it doesn't match Jasper's, and he is shaking like a crackhead looking for a fix. I'm not entirely sure if it's due to fear or anger.

“Bella, are you implying that my mama didn't raise me right?”

“No, Jasper, I'm stating that your mother raised you better than this. You abscond with a true lady, fuck her completely senseless to the point where she shits nothing but rainbows and unicorns, and lack the manners that should have dictated you speak with her closest friend here as proxy for her family. Do you feel you've properly introduced yourself and declared your intentions with regard to Miss Brandon or have you instead acted like a randy boy at a frat party?”

Jasper, the man I've known since we were skinny, zit-faced freshmen in high school, the man I went to college with, roomed with for four years, and owns employee number two here, hangs his head, and stutters heartfelt apologies at Baby Swan, who's gone completely schoolmarm on his ass. Jasper's Texas accent is all but unnoticeable these days unless he's upset, so I'm unsure how Baby Swan knew exactly what buttons to push. I may as well be non-existent during the rest of lunch as she quizzes him and he spills so many deep, dark secrets only I know that I am convinced she is a witch.

As we walk back to the office, she tells me she has to run an errand, and will meet me back in my office in a while. Jasper is looking shell-shocked, stumbling next to me in complete silence before finally grabbing my arm and pulling me to a stop.

“Edward, Jesus God, is she always like that?”

Tears are already rolling down my face when I manage to choke out, “Pretty fucking much, Jasper. Welcome to the world of Baby Swan.”

~ B~

Saturday.

One more day until what promises to be the most insane day of my life, but at least today, Edward doesn't have to work. I'd thought we could do something fun today involving fresh air but it's freezing cold and pouring rain, so we are sitting on the futon watching movies and arguing about laundry. My laundry, specifically, which needs to be done. I want to take it to the laundromat. He wants to lure me to his apartment, where he has a washer and dryer.

Free laundry is tempting. Very tempting. But in order to get free laundry, I'd be seduced into his den of iniquity. With its huge bed with 500-thread-count, Egyptian cotton sheets or other such fuckery.

The ovaries are suckers for nice sheets.

I know he's wondering why I'm not fucking him yet. Shit, I'm wondering why I'm not fucking him yet. From the conversations I've had with Alice since last weekend, I don't know how Jasper is making it into work, much less able to walk to lunch with Edward every day. The boy is, quite simply, a sex machine, according to Ms. Brandon.

I've had Edward staying at my apartment. For a week. Sleeping in the same bed. Don't get me wrong; the kissing and stuff is hot. If he hadn't stopped me last weekend, I think I would definitely have let him fuck my lights out. Stupid girl-parts seem to be all about the spontaneous moments. Trouble is, there haven't been any more spontaneous moments and when I start thinking about it, I panic. The idea of fucking Edward makes me want to go hyperventilate into a paper bag while hiding under his bed. Last weekend, I wasn't thinking. The ovaries were. Now that I am in charge again, I might as well be Mother Superior in The Sound of Music singing about open windows and shit. I know I'm being a fucking idiot, but idiot is apparently the only language I speak.

Rich Kid hasn't said a word about it, but if he thinks I'm missing his extra-long showers in the morning, he's sadly mistaken. I'm riddled with guilt that I'm forcing my boyfriend to spend valuable sleep time making shower babies. If another spontaneous moment were to present itself, maybe I could convince myself to walk past that big gray fucker of an elephant in the room, but as it is, I'm just plain old embarrassed. I can tell him all about Jamie's tuck but damned if I can talk to him about this. He already thinks I'm a freak.

“Baby Swan?” “Hmm?” I don't feel like getting out of bed. Movie day be damned.

“Baby Swan, why don't we get your laundry, pack up some of your movies and watch the movies at my place?”

“Haven't I already said I don't want to go there? We'll go to the laundromat. It's faster, since you can do all the wash at once.”

“Yes, but it costs money, Baby Swan. Laundry is free at my apartment.”

I grumble at him, “It's not free at your place. You have to pay for electric and water and whatever high- fallutin' kind of laundry detergent you buy in actual bottles instead of the vending machine on the wall. You'll make me pay for it one way or another. At least at the laundromat, I can pay in fucking quarters.”

He grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around so I'm facing him.

“Baby Swan, I thought we were done with this shit. I'd like to point out that you are getting squirrelly, as you call it. I'm not going to force you into a life of indentured fucking just for using my washing machine. You don't have to put out to do laundry.”  
  
“No, but I'm sure that your sheets will make my ovaries pay anyway.” He rolls his eyes, and I can tell he's totes trying not to laugh his fool ass right off.

“Baby Swan, if it makes you and your anthropomorphized ovaries feel any better, I promise all three of you that you don't have to go anywhere near my sheets. Now get whatever chick-flick weepfest you want to assemble to punish me for forcing you into free laundry facilities and let's go. I'm sure I need to stop at the store to lay in a supply of cheap chocolate as an additional requirement for your capitulation.”

# # #

In under an hour and a half, we are in Rich Kid's fucktabulous apartment. It's the kind of apartment that you see in movies, with the huge-ass open windows and the gleaming hardwood floors and the huge open spaces and the SubZero refrigerator. It shames me to realize I've been forcing him to stay in my rat hole instead of this palace. The washer is spinning and Rich Kid is about to put one of my movies on, holding up the bag of DVDs with an obvious question mark in the single raised eyebrow.

I'm not paying attention to his ginormous flat-screen and coordinating electronica, however. Instead, what I'm looking at is this gleaming black piano in the middle of the room. I know it's not there as a pretty piece of furniture, because there aren't pictures and vases scattered all over it. This is a piano that gets played, and I realize I've been living with someone for a week and know next to nothing about him at all.

Articulate girl that I am, I point to it, then to him. Obviously, he knows me better than I know him, because he takes a seat and begins to play before I can even tell him what I want him to do. And fuck me, if I thought Rich Kid was hot just walking around like the sex on a stick that he is, listening to him play is enough to make me want to beg him to bend me over the piano bench and have at it.

Without a break in his playing, he says, “It's Chopin...”

“Yes, Rich Kid, I know. Nocturne in C Sharp Minor. I can't remember the number, but I'm not brain-dead. Now shut up and play.”

The floor looks clean enough--the result of a cleaning lady's efforts, no doubt--so I lay down on it, letting the music wash over me, while listening to the near-silent sounds of his movements on the bench and his foot on on the pedals. I lie there on my back, unmoving, as he moves to another piece, Rachmaninoff, if

I'm not mistaken, but my thoughts are moving through the music, and don't need identification.

I'm so in love with him, and I could lay here on the floor the rest of my life, doing nothing but being in love and listening to him play.

Wait. What the fuck did I just say? I'm in what with him? I sit up too fast, whacking my head, hard, against the piano. Rich Kid's playing pauses for just a moment at my “Ow” and he asks if I'm okay. I rub my sore head with my hand and tell him, “Yes,” before looking at the blood on my hand and shit... I'm going to pass out now, aren't I?

~ E~

Head wounds bleed like a stuck pig. The combination of a father who is a doctor and a sister who regularly rapped my head into shit growing up has taught me at least that much, and I keep repeating it like a mantra as I look at the blood all over her hand and her face and shit... there's a big puddle on the floor. I still have absolutely no idea what the fuck just happened. One minute I'm playing and the next minute this.

Head wounds always bleed a fuckton. They bleed way more than they should for the size of the cut. Carlisle taught me that. Should I call him? Maybe he'd come over. Then again, maybe he'd just laugh at me for panicking over something small that I could have handled myself. What's the first rule of first aid, Edward? Think.

Remain calm and assess the situation. Great. I'm neither calm nor assessing. I need to soak up some of the blood and see what's what.

I grab some ice, a wet washcloth, and a towel so I can clean her up and make sure she's not seriously hurt. I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a concussion because she really didn't hit her head that hard. Is Baby Swan —who seems afraid of nothing—freaked out by the sight of blood? Once I get her cleaned up, I'm able to see that the cut is superficial and tiny. Sure enough, it won't even need stitches. She's fine, which means I can breathe now, wiped from the adrenaline high.

I have most of her cleaned up when she comes around, and she looks confused.

“Why did you stop playing?”

I can't let her know that I just completely freaked out over her bumping her head.

“Well, Baby Swan, you banged your head on the piano and bled all over my floor. I had to stop playing to mop up and make sure you weren't dead.”

“Oh shit. Blood. I can't stand blood. I didn't puke, did I?” Fucking-A am I happy she didn't vomit.

“No, Bella, you were fine. No puking. Only fainting. Can I ask why you sat up so fast, though? You looked like you were in a panic.”

She looks at me like she's afraid, and then shakes her head.

“No, it was just... I wasn't sure which Rachmaninoff piece that was and I wanted to ask you what you were playing.”

She's lying, and we both know it, but I don't want to push her. It's enough that I got her here to my apartment today. Any more and I'm sure she'll bolt. I only wish I knew why.

“Since obviously, listening to me play is far too dangerous for you, Baby Swan, what movies did you bring? We can call for take-out and watch while your wash runs.”

She raises a single eyebrow as she pulls a DVD out of her bag. I expect a chick flick, and am surprised to see The Matrix.

“Rich Kid. Flat screen. Surround sound. Classic awesomesauce action. Way better than re-watching it at my house. Plus, computers plus guns? Fuckhot.”

I snuggle with her on the couch and wait for the take-out to arrive, laughing as she shrieks “Mitzi” at the first appearance of Agent Smith. Baby Swan talks at the characters the entire time we watch the movie.

Today, I'm just going to try to make her happy here. Tomorrow I'll worry about why she doesn't want to be here in the first place and what the hell Rosalie is going to do at a drag pageant. Hopefully, her teeth and claws will be retracted and she'll be nice. I have a feeling that Baby Swan is about two seconds from running in the other direction without ever telling me why, and I don't think it's the money or the fame or the 20 psychotic phone calls. There's something more that Baby Swan doesn't want me to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to FF.net reviewers kpeery1 for the spork/napkin/wet wipe trifecta and Mrs. Boyer-Cullen for reminding me that thus far, we hd been devoid a Star Trek reference, which is unacceptable.


	10. There's a Bitchy Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a queen. She's bitchy.

I wake up not knowing exactly where I am. I can smell Edward next to me, his morning wood pressing up against me and his arm draped over me, but everything else is all wrong. The bed is huge. The pillows are way too fluffy. And the sheets are about to cause a spontaneous orgasm they are so fucking awesome.

The ovaries tell me to roll over, climb on top of him, and hit that six ways to Sunday. My head tells me it already is Sunday, and I need to call Jamie or my house of cards assembled for today will be flatter than a trailer park in Texas during tornado season. A quick look at the clock tells me that we slept in; it's already past ten, so I know James will be up and pacing.

I slide out from under Edward's arm as the ovaries whimper about leaving the sheets and the morning wood, and head out to the living room for my phone, which

Edward has responsibly plugged in for me. The phone rings exactly one-half of one ring before he picks up and immediately begins to apologize.

“Bella, Beauty, chica, I'm so sorry.” “No, Jamie, I'm sorry, too.”

“Honestly. Mitt-Mitt went up one side of me and down the other about taking you for granted. You deserve a life. You shouldn't feel like you always have to hag for me...”

“Jamie, I want to be there to help you. Am I still Vicky's dresser?” “She doesn't want anyone else. You still want to? I figured you'd want to attend more society bruncheons instead.” “James...” “I'm sorry. I'll stop. Seriously. You'll be there today?” “Yes. And um.. well, Edward and his family are coming to meet you. And support you, of course.”

“You are bringing the court of Marie Antoinette to a pageant for the Third Estate? Bella, you should know better. Or is this a test? If he doesn't bolt after getting down and dirty with the drag queens in front of his family, he's a keeper?”

I hadn't thought about it, but maybe he's right. Am I testing Edward, though, or his family? Or both? “He wants to see you perform, Jamie. And his family... seemed interested.”

God's truth, Esme shrieked when Edward suggested the change in venue for today's get-together. It appears Esme and her fellow society doyennes have an ongoing competition to see who will show up at the next event with the most risqué experience to share. Esme was sure she'd be winning this month hands-down, and

Carlisle reported yesterday that she was packing her wallet full of small bills.

The only person I was unsure of was Rich Kid's sister Rosalie. From comments he'd made, she sounds like the quintessential ice princess, bitchy, condescending, and dismissive of her younger brother, no matter his success. Dragging home a scruffy mutt like me was only going to incite her, and considering she'd traumatized her tween brother about the state of his junk for five years, she sounded like a bitch on wheels. Of course, at first glance, Esme seemed like a bitch on wheels as well, and here she was planning to attend a drag pageant with bells on. Rosalie could always surprise me.

In the meantime, I yank a box of Quisp off the fridge and pull the rice milk out of the fridge. Why the fuck he drinks rice milk I have no idea. I'm going to go all out and serve Rich Kid breakfast in bed. I find no orange juice, but there is one bottle of some import oatmeal stout. Oatmeal is a breakfast food, so this should be a breakfast drink, right? Fucking-A I'm right. We can split it. And then it should be wine-thirty by the time we're done.

# # #

Victoria is already dressed for her first number, and is drumming impatiently on her dressing table. I yell at her to cut that shit out, because she's going to completely fuck up both her acrylics and the kickass French manicure and I do not have time to fix that shit. People are starting to arrive and I need to go out front to greet the family and introduce them to Mitt-Mitt. The current plan is that all of us, including Jamie and Emmett, will hit The Royal for dinner after the pageant. I have my fingers, toes, and fucking bra straps crossed that girlfriend at least places today, or it's going to be one rough fucking dinner.

I look around the dressing room and see that bitch Heaven Lee scoping out Victoria's outfits. I growl at her. Bitch keeps shopping at Target instead of hunting for the good shit at Marshalls. It takes true shopping dedication to put a queen's wardrobe together and make sure it's designer, and Heaven does not get that. I spy Tasha over in the corner and wave her over. Bitch may be even more classless than Victoria, but at least I know she'll keep her company and not try to slice up any costumes with pinking shears like Heaven's been. I squeeze Victoria's shoulder as I run out to the audience to find Emmett. He's promised me he's going to be on his best behavior today, and keep Edward and his family company while I'm backstage. When I find him, he's approaching a tall, gorgeous blonde and I run over.

“My god, my brother has no chance at all against you. Damn, girl, how do you get your make-up looking so flawless? You are without a doubt, the most beautiful queen I have ever seen.”

The blonde preens, but doesn't answer. I'm wondering who she is and how Emmett knows her, because he reaches over and grabs her tit, a forward move even for him.

“Shit, you have to tell Beauty here where you got your tits. Beauty, feel these! They feel like real tits! Jamie needs to get some of these.”

The blonde hauls off and nails Mitt-Mitt in the jaw, knocking him flat. “They feel real because they are real, you barbarian.”

My jaw must be hitting the floor at this point, because just then, Edward and his parents walk up behind her and she addresses them as if she knows them.

“Mr. Horrible, I have no fucking idea what sort of trash you are hanging out with these days, but I have never had my breasts groped by a complete stranger.”

Christ on crudité, Mitt-Mitt has just introduced himself—and me by default—to Rosalie Cullen. By grabbing her tit and assuming she was a man. My day has already gone to complete shit and it hasn't even started. Fuck. Me. Hard.

~ E~

I spot Baby Swan's friend Emmett talking to Rosalie, and am attempting to rush my parents along in front of me to make the formal introductions when I see him grab... my sister's breast? I realize that Bella's friends can be a bit strange, but this is completely over the top. I have no idea what could have provoked him, but by the time we reach them, Rosalie has already punched him, and Baby Swan looks like she's about to vomit.

I hear Rosalie's words but can't quite process what happened... until, that is, I look at what my sister is wearing. While Emmett is casual in khakis and a collar-less knit shirt, and Baby Swan is dressed like, well, Baby Swan, in a long burgundy skirt and a black t-shirt with a screen-printed neon light reading “Loud is the New Good,” Rosalie has dressed in what can only be called semi-formal attire. For some unknown reason, she's wearing a taupe Shantung suit, with her hair in a very tasteful chignon. Compared to the rest of the arriving audience—even my mother—she's overdressed. So overdressed, in fact, that Emmett has apparently mistaken my sister for one of the competitors: a drag queen. Baby Swan had already figured this out, of course, but now that my brain has finally determined how to add two and two, I lose it, laughing so uncontrollably that people are turning to stare.

My mother, of course, is concerned by my outburst, and clutches my arm. Cullens should not make a scene, even in a room full of drag queens and their friends. Even after one of them has cold-cocked someone in a crowd. I'm gasping as I attempt to explain, since I'm sure Baby Swan will not. “He thought... sorry... Mother, Father, Rosalie, this is Emmett... Emmett...” I'm downright giggling by now...

“Emmett, these are my parents. And my sister, Rosalie.” Emmett now makes the cognitive leap to realize his mistake, but my parents and sister still aren't quite there.

I obviously have to explain. “Rose, Emmett thought... well, he thought you were one of the pageant entrants.”

Rosalie, in that moment, makes up for the entire five years she had me believing I was deformed. She is so horrified that she stalks off toward the door without a word, Emmett leaping to his feet and chasing after her, stuttering apologies in her wake.

Baby Swan turns to my parents first. “Carlisle... Esme... I'm so very sorry. I had no idea. And... well... Emmett always seems to stumble into this  
sort of social faux pas.”

She turns to me, about to speak, when my mother finally processes everything she just witnessed.

“Bella, you mean to tell me that your friend mistook Rosalie for a female impersonator?”

Bella, covering her face with both hands, can only nod.

My mother, having suddenly morphed into one of the Real Housewives, is now laughing uproariously, Cullen composure be damned.

“Bella, dear, I'm only sorry Laurent isn't here to see this. I have a feeling he'll be assigning Rosalie a stage name of her own once he hears this story. Now I can't wait for this month's Garden Club meeting! The show hasn't even started yet and I'm already sure I've got the best story!”

My father is laughing and shaking his head, and Baby Swan is still looking green and covering her mouth with her hand. She leads us to the seats Emmett had been saving for us, and gestures for us to sit down before wandering backstage. I turn to my mother, intending to tell her that I'm going to go after Rosalie, but she shakes her head as if she's read my mind.

“Leave her be, Edward. Bella's friend seems nice enough, and I think he should have a chance to apologize for his mistake. And your sister will want to compose herself before she comes back in to face you. She's given you a great deal of grief over the years, and I'm sure she fears you'll use this little incident to your advantage. If I were you, I might do just that, but you take after your father, dear.”

With that, my mother settles back in her seat to await the start of the pageant, and I try to wrap my head around the morning. Beer for breakfast, Rosalie mistaken for a drag queen, a fist fight (or at least the beginning of one), and my mother revealing herself as an alien in a Mother suit—all before two in the afternoon. I shudder to think of what's in store the rest of the day.

# # #  
  
We've already made it through the evening gown portion of the pageant, as well as the question and answer section, and they've now whittled the field down to those who are participating in the talent competition. Rosalie came back in with Emmett approximately halfway through the evening gown competition, just in time to see his brother strut in a floor-length black lame gown with a slit up to what I assume was his tuck. I still have no idea how that whole thing works, and didn't want to give it much thought. Emmett stood to applaud and whistle loudly while my sister stood to elbow him viciously in an attempt to get him to stop drawing attention to where we were sitting.

Of course, their resulting argument caused more of a scene than the whistling had, and I look over at my parents to see how well they are faring, and note that they both have flasks they are swigging.

To catch up: Baby Swan is helping her drag queen friend backstage.

My sister, having been mistaken for a drag queen, is arguing with a tech reporter who thinks I have a plot to join the government in creating an Orwellian New World Order.

My parents are getting schnockered next to me.

I'm thanking my lucky fucking stars that all we have to do is get through the talent competition when I see Bella heading toward us. She's clearly been drinking a bit backstage as she totters into the aisle to sit with us, shoving past Emmett and Rosalie to take the empty seat left next to me.

“Oh my fucking hell, Rich Kid, if she doesn't place she's going to be unbearable. She's been a bitch on wheels backstage and I'm fucking wiped!

“How's it been out here?”

“Emmett and Rosalie still aren't speaking, but seem to have some sort of symbiotic hate-filled physical relationship at this point, and my parents over there are hitting their flasks with great regularity.

“What's Vicky doing for her talent?”

“Rich Kid, you have to see it to believe it. She's doing this number they are all backstage bitching is tired. But she's going to de-queenify herself on stage, and the song is about what it means to be a man. It's amazing. First, however, we have to suffer through Tasha's bit.”

“What is Tasha doing?” “She's riding a trike around stage, twirling a baton, and performing to some tired-ass song.”

Mother howls and hoots through Tasha's number, even as Bella tries valiantly to explain to her exactly what the drag name “Tasha Salad” means, and why Esme might not want to repeat this bit to her Garden Club, but as Victoria comes out on stage for her performance, the entire crowd is silent.

She is wearing full drag, a gorgeous blonde rivaling my sister in beauty from this distance. As she begins her song, she start to remove the trappings of her costume: the dress pulled down, the false breasts removed, the wig taken off. She swipes at the make-up, clips off the nails, then removes the rest of her costume, dressing in men's clothing to walk off the stage, the transformation startling.

I reach out to hold Baby Swan's hand. Tears are streaming down her face as she watches her friend place his entire costume in a bag and exit the stage. She squeezes my hand once and slides back out of the aisle to help him get back into his costume and make-up for the awards, and I think we should all be so brave as to take off our masks in public.

~B~

Dinner. The Royal.

Rich Kid's parents are half in the bag, which should have made it easier to get them into a dive like The Royal, but Esme is absolutely entranced by the rotating case of Jello-riffic desserts near the register. Apparently there is no rotating rainbow rack of Jello at the country club, and Rich Kid and Big Daddy C have to tear her away to get her to our booth.

Victoria is still dressed in a long, red number--nails, wig, and make-up replaced--and is prancing around the entire place with her fucking tiara and rose bouquet. Bitch deserved to win for that performance, but now she'll be unbearable. Not to mention, she was doing shots of 151 backstage, so she's completely in the bag.  
Rosalie is carrying on about her ritzy-ass suit touching the germtastic vinyl of the booth seat and Emmett, god bless his adorable little soul, just whipped out a handkerchief for her to sit on. The ice princess may be thawing a bit, because she doesn't growl at him and actually offers him the tiniest smile for his gallantry. Mitt-Mitt, mind you, is already sporting a huge bruise on his jaw. Rich Bitch packs a serious punch, and I wonder if she's got Esme's lipo fat stored somewhere in the house for later soap creation.

We place our orders, and I add Jamie's usual even though he's refusing to sit his ass down with us for even two seconds. Carlisle and Esme are giggling and I realize that she is totes giving Big Daddy C a hand job under the table, so I attempt to distract Rich Kid by asking him about the show. I'm a sucktastic actress, though, and he slams his coffee cup down, sloshing hot Nectar of the Gods everywhere, but at least breaking up Mumsie and Popsie tugging under the table.

Rosalie, however, is not pleased with how well the afternoon has been going. Her brother hasn't made a horrible mess of things yet, and a good time was apparently not what she was looking for. She waits until Jamie saunters back to the table and perches regally at the edge of the seat next to Carlisle. Oh sweet lord.

“So, Victoria, is it? What is it about you that makes you want to dress up like a woman and prance around on stage? Oedipal issues?”

Victoria is never someone you want to cross. Drunk, she's a vicious harpy.

“So, Paris, is it? What is it about you that makes you want to talk down to people and treat your brother over here like shit? I hear my brother Mitt-Mitt over here spotted an Adam's apple when he met you. You post- op? Or still have a surprise down there if my brother does manage to get into your pants?”

Rosalie launches herself at Victoria, but, unlike Emmett, Victoria is used to being physically attacked, the downside of being both a gay man and a man who dresses like a woman in public.

“Bitch, please. Underneath all this fucking pretty, I am still a man, and I have no qualms about hitting a chick who hits me first. And I wouldn't even fuck up my acrylics to do it.”

Rosalie shoves past me out of the booth after that, Emmett tearing off after her, no doubt to apologize for his brother's behavior. And here I thought the fisticuffs were going to be the low point of the day.

~ E~

I'm torn. Rosalie is every bit the bitch I said she was, but she is my sister, and my mother just watched that exchange like it was Wimbeldon, volleys flying back and forth as a matter of course. My father was still distracted by my mother's inebriated advances, and wasn't much help. Scenes with Rosalie were, unfortunately, part of being a Cullen. Nothing was ever good enough, or interesting enough, for Rosalie.

I let out one quick sigh before I turned to Victoria. “Can I ask what the fuck your problem is with my sister?” The glare was turned my way now, and one long, blood-red nail pointed at me. “Rich Kid, you do not want to fuck with me, understand?” I pressed on despite her warning. “I just want to know what it is about this diner that brings out the PMSing shrew in a man.”

Baby Swan drops her head forward until her forehead bangs on the table. My parents are stunned into silence, but I can tell my mother is a bit nervous by the way she's clicking her nails on her coffee mug. Rosalie always speaks her mind. Edward always sits silently. This is a deviation from the established order.

“Look, you rich little shit. You know absolutely nothing about me, about my brother, about my life, and especially not about Beauty here. You waltz in here, what? A week ago? Sweep little Beauty off her feet, and let her think that someone of your fucking level of society would actually be interested in her.

“The reality, and I think everyone here at the table knows it, is that you are slumming, Rich Kid. Beauty here is a seductive little gypsy that you'll reminisce about with your fucking society matron wife when you are old and gray. The hip girl you bagged before her who taught you how to look at life just a little bit differently when you are teeing off on a Saturday morning with your cronies.

“But that girl right there is like my fucking sister, Rich Kid, and you don't know shit about her. Not one fucking thing.

“How old are you, anyway, Mr. CEO?” I'm so stunned by his accusations that I can do nothing but answer, “Twenty-three.”

“Twenty-fucking-three years old. CEO. And you let Beauty here invite your sister along today for what? To piss your sister off? To get your jollies? Your mother over here seems like a good time. But your sister... not so much. This was a test, you fucking fool. Beauty was testing you, to see what would happen. If you'd stand up to your sister or let her walk all over things.

“Beauty, however, forgot about Mitt-Mitt. She forgot that Mitt-Mitt will walk over hot fucking coals for her, and has since the goddamned day her flake of a mother dropped her ass off at my house asking my parents if Beauty could stay for a couple of days after her father walked out. That couple of days turned into three fucking years, Rich Kid, until Beauty left for college, and our home is still the only one she has to come back to.”

He's right. Bella hasn't told me a word of this. I see her shoulders shaking and I can hear her sniffling and yet I'm powerless to stop any of this.

“You don't ask her a goddamned question, do you, Rich Shit? You don't ask her who her parents are or what her dreams are or why the fuck she's 25 years old with a Cornell education and she's working as a temp secretary, do you?

“All this willful ignorance, designed to keep her mysterious and attractive to you, and yet she still throws me under a fucking bus. I'm the one who has sat with her when she cries at night, feeling rejected and abandoned. I'm the one who took her to prom because no one would ask her and she wanted to go, even though I shudder at the thought of all those breeders dressed up and playing Barbie and fucking Ken.

“You walk in, though, and she can't even give me one Edward-Fucking-Cullen-free day for a pageant. In which I was magnificent, by the way.

“Best of all, because you are so busy playing knight in shining armor slumming with the gypsy girl, you don't even ask the most important question of all.”  
Emmett and my sister have returned, and Emmett is watching in horror as Victoria's mouth continues with this vomit of information Baby Swan hadn't been ready to tell me.

“Jamie,” he begs, “please don't do this.” Victoria, however, isn't going to be swayed by Emmett. “There's one thing I do know, Rich Shit. You haven't fucked her.” At that, Bella's head snaps up, her eyes pleading with him, but he ignores her.

“Do you know how I know that, you unwelcome goat fucker? Because Beauty here is afraid of failure. If you don't try, you can't ever fail. She didn't get into fucking grad school, so she came back here to live a failure-free life with me and Mitt-Mitt. She makes ends meet. She does other people's jobs. She writes other people's stories. Most of all, she never, ever, gets close enough to a guy to let him fuck her.

“She won't ever sleep with you, Rich Shit. She's a 25-year-old professional avoider. She'll be a virgin until she dies, because she's so afraid of failure, so afraid of being rejected, so afraid that she's going to suck at fucking, that she won't even try.”

At that, Victoria takes off, Emmett chasing after her, Cullens all agape, and Bella sobbing into her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks go to Ninapolitan for sparking the germ of Rosalie and Emmett's encounter, Lost My Mind Forever for the grab, and adorablecullens for “unwelcome goat fucker” and her super beta services once again. Victoria's talent performance is stolen shamelessly from queens everywhere. You can view one version on YouTube by agnesofdune.


	11. There's Confession and Patron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's confession. And Patron. That's tequila.

I cannot move.

If I move, I will have to uncover my face. If I uncover my face, I will see Rich Kid and his parents and his sister all staring at me in pity.

The last thing I want is pity. Virgin. Temp. Fag hag. Failure.

Fuck Jamie. Fuck Mitt-Mitt for being so caught up in Rich Kid's snooty sister that he wasn't here to drag his drunk-ass brother off to soak his fucking head. Fuck

Rich Kid for sitting there and listening to Jamie splaying my life out there like it was the latest prime-time show everyone's talking about at the water cooler.

Virgin. Temp. Fag hag. Failure.

Jamie was totes correct in his little soliloquy. Rich Kid asked no questions and therefore, I told him no lies. Edward saw only the eccentric, the bohemian, the free spirit, not the rest.

There was only one question left to answer: how the fuck do I get out of here with my hands covering my face? With my luck today, I'd bump into some waitress carrying a steaming pot of coffee and end up with disfiguring burns on top of my mutilated ego.

Carlisle clears his throat.

“Bella, er, thank you for a lovely day. We certainly had a very nice time until, well... er... Edward, next Sunday? ”

Rich Kid responds, and he sounds angry. “We'll be there.”

I hear rustling, and then silence. I can only assume the Cullens have left, but I can still feel Edward's presence next to me.

“Baby Swan?” His voice is hesitant, and I can't bring myself to answer him. I feel naked and raw. “Baby Swan, can I take you home?”

Of course. I have no fucking car. Mitt-Mitt saw to that. Rich Kid can drop me off, back in my ghetto, and go back to his deluxe apartment in the sky. That silver spoon stuck in his craw will prevent him from letting me take the bus, so I may as well acquiesce to his request.

I remove my hands from my face, but keep my eyes to the ground as I lead him out of The Royal. Someone, most likely Rich Kid or Big Daddy C, has already left a pile of bills on the table. I wonder how a gratuity is calculated to include that kind of a scene. Or do they consider the entertainment part of the tip?

Rich Kid opens my door silently, good Little Lord Fauntleroy that he is. On the way to my apartment, we sit in our own little bubbles; Edward doesn't bother with the music and I neglect to take control of his iPod. It's no longer my place to do that. He knows now that I'm not the confident, brash girl of his fantasies. Instead, I'm an adult pretending that I haven't grown up. How can he be what he is at 23, when I have two years on him and have nothing to show for my quarter-century?

There are no open spots on the street, so Rich Kid swings into the grocery store parking lot, parking where my jalopy once sat. The juxtaposition of his wealth and success replacing the rusted-out symbol of my failure isn't lost on me, and brings back the mantra:

Virgin. Temp. Fag hag. Failure.

I remain in my seat, waiting for him to open the door for me, too tired and beaten to argue about this shit anymore. Susie Bright can kiss my ass. Let the boy open the fucking doors for my tired self. Gentleman that he is, Rich Kid walks me to my door. My keys feel like I'm lifting lead to raise them to my doorknob, and I open the door, trying to move quickly so he won't see me cry anymore. I can't hear his excuses, or his goodbye.

“Bella?” I squeeze my eyes closed, willing the tears to stay where they fucking are. “Can I... would it be okay if I come in?”

What the fuck, Rich Kid? Why can't you leave well enough alone? Jamie has already laid out in fine detail exactly how wrong we are for each other. The past week feels like a waste of fucking time: Rich Kid slumming and me pretending to be something I'll never be.

“Why even bother, Edward?” We are both using real names now. Nicknames gone. Masks off. I'm just Bella. He's just Edward.

“Because we need to talk about this, Bella. If I walk out of this apartment right now, I know I'll never see you again. I'm not ready to accept that.”

I whirl on him, the pain channeled as anger.

“What exactly do we need to talk about, Edward? I'm no Savannah Wingo, with barking fucking dogs you can will away by finding the right key to my life experiences. I'm just a 25-year-old failure so scared of my own fucking shadow I'm afraid to do anything.”

He sighs, and runs his fingers through his already fucked-up hair.  
  
“Bella, James... Victoria... whatever... He was right. I never asked you about yourself. I never asked what you want or what you dream or why we weren't going any further than making out on the futon. I should have asked why you avoided my apartment. Shit, I should have asked how old you were.

“Is there no way I can be forgiven for that heinous oversight? Can't I have a second chance to ask the right questions? Just me, and you, with less trying to impress each other and more getting to know each other?”

He's so cute when he's pleading.

I want this. I want this more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life, this thing with Edward Cullen the Not-Quite-Second. But I'm so fucking afraid to give in and say, “Yes, this is what I want.”

Then he just points his bat and hits that fucker out of the park.

“Bella Fucking Swan, I'm begging you. I think Baby Swan is amazing, but I think I can fall in love with Bella. Will you let me?”

As if I could do anything but.

~ E~

She steps to the side, letting me enter the apartment, and I feel like I'm doing a dance at the top of the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Arts when she closes the door behind me. It's only a first step, but without this, I'd have nothing left.

I can tell she's more nervous than she's been this entire week, and I need to get us back in our zone to get through this conversation we don't want to have. She's made us Bella and Edward, but I need some of Baby Swan's swagger back or she'll crumple, too fragile to get through this conversation that needs to happen.

“So... 25, eh? A whole quarter-century. Should I call you Mrs. Robinson?” She's been looking at the floor this whole time, but her head snaps up. “Only if I can call you Doogie, Rich Kid.” Baby Swan is back. That's all I needed to hear.

“Does it mess with your head? Being older than I am, I mean.” “I already knew. I told you I Googled that shit. You have your own fucking Wikipedia entry.” “Did you edit that, Baby Swan?” “Yes, I made sure that the whole world knows your dick is named Mr. Horrible.” I panic. “You didn't!”

“Jesus, Rich Kid, of course I didn't. I did edit it to make sure they are aware your mom carries a flask, though. And some serious updating is in order now that I know your sister is really a man.”  
  
I laugh, but it feels forced. This entire exchange feels tense, and forced, and so unlike us.

“Bella, can we talk? About all this?”

“What do you want to know, Edward? Everything you heard is truth, plain and simple. High school was just non-stop work. I had to get into college any way I could, and my grades were the only thing I had to get me there. I had no time for friends; I was so busy with extra-curriculars and studying and extra-credit assignments so that my transcript would look outstanding.

“I didn't date. I didn't go out to malls or parties or dances. I can't tell you a single movie that came out in the four years I was in high school or the four years I was at Cornell. I don't know the names of any of the bars in Ithaca. Everything was meant to get me to grad school. And then when I didn't get accepted... there wasn't anything left. I came home. I started temping. I hang with Jamie and Mitt-Mitt and Alice and that's been my life for the past four years.”

“Four?” She hangs her head. “I was a year ahead in school. I'm supposed to be smart and shit.” “Bella, who was your first kiss?” Her head jerks back up. “Why are you asking me that?” “I have a feeling it's important. Who was your first kiss?” Her head is back down, and her answer is directed at my feet, not me. “Jamie.” “What?”

“I was drinking one night. And we were talking about firsts and everything and he caught on pretty quickly that I had nothing to share. There I was, 21 years old, a college grad, and never been kissed. It sounds like a cheesy book or a movie, doesn't it? Like that Drew Barrymore shit? So he volunteered to teach me, so at least I wouldn't be a complete spaz when and if I finally kissed someone. It was nice, since we're friends, but not like it was hot or anything, because that's gross.”

“Why James and not Emmett?”

“Oh my god, you fucknut, are you kidding me? Frenching your gay boyfriend is fine. Frenching your straight guy friend is not. Get with the etiquette of the sexually retarded here.”

“So you are like the Emily Post of the sexually retarded?” “Fucking- A.”  
  
“Okay, so James was your first kiss, which is... sorry... tragic in its own right. Who was your first real kiss? ”

She abruptly stalks off to the kitchen then, returning with a bottle of Patron Añejo and a single shot glass that looks like it's at least a double. She pours one, downs it, then pours another, offering it to me. I shake my head and she downs the second shot before pouring a third, setting it on the table, and flopping onto the futon.

I'm beginning to get the feeling that this answer is going to scare the shit out of me, so I sit next to her and down that third shot, pouring her another.

“Bella?”

Her fingers are playing with the bottle's cork. Up, down. Up, down, Up, down. I'm nearly hypnotized when I'm jolted back to reality when she answers.

“You.”

~ B~

The second I let the word exit my mouth, I feel the tequila creeping back up my esophagus. Oh, sweet, honey-coated Jesus, please don't let me puke. My humiliation today is above and beyond what any girl should have to live through in a lifetime. Puking all over him would be the icing on a shit cake. I can't even look at him, so afraid that I'll embarrass myself even more.

He sounds like he's been running for miles when he says my name.

“Bella.”

There is no question. Only a statement. A declaration, if you will.

I expected more talking. A demand for more explanation. Instead, I feel his hands on my face, raising it to meet his gaze.

And then, his breath, warm against my lips. “I want to give you flowers and candles and satin sheets and all the romance novel bullshit, Baby Swan.”

I have to answer him, before he can stop this, or I'll die right here on my futon with the crazy tie-dye fleece blanket.

“I'm a good tequila, Hello Kitty sheets kind of girl, though, Rich Kid.”

I can feel his mouth almost touching mine as it bends into the smile I needed him to have before he kisses me.

“I can't promise you the moon, Baby Swan. That's why your first time is always with a clumsy high school boy, so you can lay the blame on youth and hormones.”  
  
“Rich Kid, it won't suck if it's with you. Now can we get on with this?”

He doesn't kiss me, but stands instead, reaching for my hand, and pulls me through the kitchen toward the bedroom. I changed the sheets before I took my laundry to his house; Hello Kitty has given way to Jack Skellington, and he laughs before heading to the bathroom for a towel.

“I know better than to think you'd want them ruined, Baby Swan.” He sets the towel on the bed, and sits on the edge, pulling me down to sit next to him. “You don't have to do this, Bella. There's nothing to prove. Not to me, not to anyone.” I want him to just shut the fuck up and kiss me. “Edward? Am I that unattractive?” He groans. “Bella, fuck. I just... you need to be sure. You can't take this back.”

I'm biting my top lip, practically gnawing on it. He won't even kiss me. This virginity thing really does freak a guy out, doesn't it? I realize I need to make the first move here, and I lean forward, brushing my lips against his, tiny little nips that barely make contact.

I feel his sharp intake of breath as I shatter his good intentions. I increase the pressure, darting my tongue out to lick his bottom lip, and it's as effective as an

“Open, sesame” in front of a cave of wonders. His mouth opens slightly and I feel the teasing touch of his tongue as his hands slide under my t-shirt. I forget that

I'm supposed to be nervous as his fingers slide along my ribs. Shit, his kissing is making me forget my own name.

I wonder if it's okay for me to touch him, and I reach for his waist, pulling his button-down free from his pants. He pulls away, yanking both his shirt and his t-shirt off in one move before moving his mouth to my neck. I allow my fingers to trace patterns on his back, savoring the feel of his skin, and the muscles as they move when he touches me. He makes no move to undress me, allowing me to explore him instead as the scrape of his teeth along my collar bone does funny things to me. I suddenly feel light-headed, and wonder if I'm about to faint.

He must be psychic, because he pulls me down to the bed so that we are facing each other, letting me have all of him to research without the worry that my eyes will roll back into my head as I wreck this.

His eyes are closed as I run my fingers over his chest, wondering if his nipples will be as sensitive as a woman's. His hiss and the way they harden under my touch proves that hypothesis, and I'm torn between continuing the experiment with my mouth or testing new theories. No shame in killing two birds with one stone, so I lean forward to lick one nipple as I allow my fingernails to scrape over his chest, following the map so helpfully left for me. My fingers touch the hair that dips below the waist of his jeans as I switch to teeth on his chest as my busy hands unfasten his pants to expand my route.

Steeling myself against certain panic, I let my hand reach inside, pushing past clothing to touch him, already hard. When my hand wraps around him, he growls and pulls away from me.  
  
“What did I do wrong?” I know that I sound pathetic but damn. I knew I'd suck at this. Fuck Jamie. Fuck Edward. Actually, wait. I'm  
not going to get to fuck Edward. “Bella, you did nothing wrong. You are doing everything right. Which is wrong.” Is he even speaking English? I wasn't wrong. I was right, but that's wrong? What the fuck, Rich Kid?

“I thought I could do this. I did, Bella. I thought I could just sit back and let you control this and move at your pace, but fuck, if I let you keep touching me like this, I'm going to end up pouncing on you and that is not what we're looking for. Can we try this the other way?”

“I wasn't aware there was more than one way, but whatever you say, Rich Kid. I'm sort of out of my depth here.”

He laughs, that's much better. Laughing is good. Laughing makes sense.

He slides his hands along the hem of my t-shirt, and this time, slowly pulls it up over my head. I'm embarrassed again when I realize I hadn't planned for this shit at all; my bra is plain white cotton and my panties... shit, my panties are not sexy in the least. All thoughts of my mismatched lingerie go right out the window as he kisses me again, his mouth fierce as his tongue sweeps in before moving on, down my neck to my chest, where he takes one cotton-covered breast in his mouth.

I can feel the warm and the wet even through the fabric, and I moan as he copies me and uses teeth. His hand teases my other breast, one finger flicking over my nipple. This is like nothing I could have imagined; my brain on fire and he hasn't even gotten me naked yet.

His breath comes faster as he slides the straps down my arms, yanking my bra down, clasp still fasted around me. If his touch felt like sin with the bra on, it's staggering with it off, and he alternates licking and nipping and suckling as his hand begins to slide up my thigh, bunching my skirt.

I gather my thoughts enough to slide my hands behind my back to unfasten my bra, but he is faster, unfastening my bra and then turning his attention to sliding my skirt down over my legs. He laughs--a low, throaty laugh,when he spots the white polka dots on the dark pink background--before leaning forward to place his mouth over the silly Hello Kitty on my hip. My eyes close, and I am unable to stop the roll of my hips as I feel his fingers sliding up my inner thigh.

I'm dying for his touch, and at the same time, petrified. What if he's grossed out? What if I get off and make stupid faces? What if I don't get off? What if I'm frigid?

What if I was right all along and I'm not any good at this and he doesn't ever want to touch me agai....

Oh. My. Hell. His fingers. Sweet lord, thank you for whatever combination of DNA resulted in these fingers.

In my distraction, I have missed his fingers sliding my ridiculous Hello Kitty panties down my legs, and his fingers are now...  
  
Fucking-A.

This man was put on his Earth to do exactly this.

I can feel my wetness, but can't even wonder if it's disgusting, because it allows his fingers to slide over me. It feels nothing like the quick and embarrassing touches

I use when I get myself off; he glides his fingers up one side and down the other and all I can think is please, Rich Kid, please and then he slides one finger inside me.

My eyes flutter open to see him watching me, his mouth drawn up in small smile as he adds another finger, moving them in and out so slowly I want to cry, scream, and beg him to move faster.

I watch as he pauses, removing his fingers for just a moment as he tears open a condom wrapper that's appeared out of nowhere and slides it on himself. His fingers return, increasing their momentum as his adds his thumb to the mix, rubbing until I know that I'm struggling to keep my eyes open, but unwilling to break the connection.

I should be mortified. My hips are thrusting against his hands and the sounds I'm making are ridiculous, all whimpers and begging and sighing his name. I'm doing all the stupid shit I've read about, but fuck I can feel that tightening beginning and all I can think is please, please, please, please let me come, Edward, and I realize

I'm saying it out loud as he smiles again, and just as I'm right... fucking... there... he leans forward, driving his tongue into my mouth as I begin to scream and...

That. Fucking. Hurts.

~ E~

Oh my god. Even if she punches me right now and races to the kitchen for a knife and plays Lorena Bobbitt, I will not care I am inside Baby Swan. And it is fuckawesome, as she would say.

I had a decision to make. Baby Swan is a worrier. As much as I wanted to go slowly and try to ease into her, I knew without a doubt it would make it ten times worse.

Surprise and speed were my friends, and I thrust into her in one swift movement as she came.

My fucking god, she was beautiful. In five seconds, she went from beautiful angel in the throes of orgasm to angry harpy.

I hated causing her pain, but there wasn't going to be any way to avoid it. Now all I had to do was hold still long enough for the pain to subside just a little and the anger to abate. I was betting on the anger taking longer.

Fuck, is she tight. I'm clenching my teeth just to keep from pulling out and thrusting back into her just to feel it again. She's clawing at my arms now, and it might help if I focus on her anger instead of the feeling... oh god... she just fucking sneezed and oh my god, I want to come.

Wait... angry... hellcat... focus. “Bella? Sweetheart? Is it getting better?”  
  
“Sweetheart?” she shrieks. “Are you fucking kidding me? You fucking impale me, ripping me apart, possibly destroying any potential for future childbearing, and you call me fucking 'sweetheart?'”

I press my forehead to hers, groaning and laughing at the same time. She's tensing as she's yelling and has no idea what that's doing to my cock. Her anger is not helping my self-control.

I need to tame her fury, and I kiss her, sweetly, with gentle nips and tiny licks until I feel her melting in my arms again. I pull back, just the most minute amount, before shifting back toward her again. There is no pause in her mouth moving against mine, so I try again, pulling back a bit farther before sinking into her again.

She moans, but doesn't push me off and that's all the encouragement I need. I move my hand to her clit, hoping to at least make her feel good as I begin to move, but it's just too much and I manage only a few more thrusts before I come so hard I'm shaking. I continue touching her, even as I ease out of her, and feel her hips begin to move once I'm no longer inside her. It takes only a few minutes of me rubbing her and suckling on her breast until I hear her cry out again.

My name pours from her lips as I gather her against me, pressing the damp towel I'd grabbed from the bathroom between her legs, and give into the oblivion of sleep, my Baby Swan in my arms, knowing that only I have claimed her.


	12. There's a New Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new job.

I wake up, and it's dark in my room. I have no idea what time it is, morning or night. I'm stiff and sore and... sticky? I'm also naked. Stiff, sore, sticky, and naked.

And... I'm fucking deflowered. Holy fucking shit on a biscuit, I'm not a virgin anymore.

What I am, however, is alone in my bed. I know from hearing about all of Alice's try-before-you buy sales events that waking up alone in the bed after sex is never a good thing. How stupid can I be? I slept with Edward because I've never wanted anything more, but maybe he thought it was nothing more than a reaction to my humiliation. Maybe he thought I was doing it to prove something. All I know is I'm here, alone, and I immediately start to cry.  
  
As I sit here in the bed, sobbing, I suddenly feel his arms around me.

“Bella! Shit... Bella? Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry. Jesus, Baby Swan, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, talk to me. Let me help you. Do you need a doctor?”

“I... thought... you... left!” I wail at him. His head collapses into my shoulder, and he laughs nervously.

“Fuck, Bella, I thought something was really wrong. I was just running a bath. I figured you'd wake up soon and want to clean up. I should have thought of that earlier instead of passing out on you like a Neanderthal. I should have taken care of you.”

I wrap my arms around him, and he lifts me as if I'm a doll, carrying me to the bathroom, where he's lit candles and used bubble bath I wasn't even aware I had. He sets me in the tub gently before sitting on the edge.

“Rich Kid, aren't you coming in with me? What's the point of all this if you aren't going to share?”

I sit forward in the tub, and he climbs in behind me, carefully placing his legs on either side of mine, letting me lean back against his chest. I sigh as the hot water begins to work its magic on my sore muscles, and soothe the ache between my legs.

“Edward, may I ask you a question?” “Baby Swan, you may ask me anything. Though I'll admit this 'Edward' business is concerning me.” “I know... ugh. I know it was my first time and everything, but was I... was it...”

“Bella? You do know that it's completely embarrassing for a guy to get off that fast, right? I'm not exactly an expert in deflowering virgins, but that was pretty okay in my book. Except for the screaming in the middle. I could live without ever hearing that again.”

I'm sure I'm blushing, but Christ on a crescent roll, that hurt like a bitch. I'm still not quite sure why people want to go through all that. “They” say it won't hurt like that again, but shit... I'm not sure I'm up for that whole bit of having my cooch rent in two again any time soon. Like, say, any time within this century. Of course, as we are talking, I feel him growing hard against my back, and for some reason, it makes me squirm. What's wrong with me? I wait this long to give it up, and now I'm suddenly an insatiable slut?

He catches on to my arousal quickly, but he seems determined to do nothing more than take care of me, using a washcloth to carefully bathe me, being extra gentle between my legs. I sigh, and close my eyes, enjoying the feel of him against me, his other hand tracing my body behind the washcloth.

“Bella?” “Hmm?” “Is it okay if we talk now? We need to discuss what happened today.”  
  
He's lured me into the hot water with freesia-scented bubbles, and now he's going to try to crack me open like a coconut? I refuse to give in.

“Do we have to? Now?” “Bella...”

Ugh. No Baby Swan here, which means there's no way I'm getting out of this clusterfuck of a conversation. I guess I may as well do it naked and soapy. At least this way, I'm comfortable.

“What do you want to know?” “Why me? Why now?”

That's the $25,000 question, isn't it? Why lose my v-card to Rich Kid? Why after only a week of knowing him when I've waited 25 years?

“You mean why not in high school or college like a normal girl? I don't have a good answer for you. I didn't have much opportunity, I guess. I was so determined in high school, and I was with Jamie and Mitt- Mitt all the time. James was already on his way out of the closet, and Emmett never felt like anything more than a big brother. By the time I got to college, I felt so out of it. All the other girls had lost their virginity long before, and I just didn't really fit in. Even the nerdiest girls had gotten laid at band camp or some shit.”

“Baby Swan, I refuse to believe guys didn't find you attractive! In addition, aren't there more men than women at Cornell?”

“I have no idea. I didn't pay attention to guys. I studied... a lot. By sophomore year, I'd moved to a tiny studio apartment while everyone else was moving into houses within walking distance of the bars. I probably could have grabbed some random guy from one of my classes to get it over with, but I just wasn't that motivated. Then, when grad school didn't pan out, I came back here. No one ever tells you how much harder it is to meet people once you are out of school.”

“I'm guessing that palling around with drag queens isn't exactly a great way to meet guys.” “It certainly fucking well is, Rich Kid! I met you, didn't I?” He laughs at my mock indignation, but I know there's more coming. “Bella, if you could do anything for a job, what would it be?”

“Shit, Edward, even you should be able to answer that for me. I want what every English major dreams of: to write a fucktabulous novel, have it hit the best seller list, be optioned for a movie, and have the movie make fucking millions.”

“Is that all?”

“Hell, no. In a truly ideal world, the book and the movie are so wicked cool that I get to go to fucking ComicCon for a panel, and they make kick-ass t-shirts, and Tim Burton begs to direct the movie.”  
  
“Why? You want the movie to have what? Stop-action?”

“No, you assfuck. I want the movie to have Johnny Depp. He is one hot-ass pepaw, and having Tim Burton direct virtually assures that will happen.”

~ E~

The water starts to get cold, and I help her out of the tub, drying her carefully, not sure how much I might have hurt her. The second I get near her thighs, she grabs the towel, muttering things that sound like “battering ram” and “instant super slut.” I have no idea what goes on inside her head, but I'm getting the feeling that either she's still upset at my surprise “moment of deflowering” or she's already turned on again. While I hope it's the latter, I'm guessing that it's actually a bit of both.

As she wanders off to undoubtedly put on yet another pair of boner-killing pajamas, I make my first move in an attack I planned in about ten minutes while driving her home this afternoon.

“Baby Swan? Do you have a temp job lined up this week?”

“Hmm?”

I was right about the pajamas. This time, it's some sort of nightgown thing with a fucking hood and a pair of ratty old sweats with paint spatters on them. I've already called for a pizza, and am interrupted in my planned questioning by the doorbell. I run downstairs to pay, and return to the apartment to find Baby Swan in the bathroom, inspecting herself in the mirror.

“Bella? Pizza's here.”

“Edward? Do I look different to you?”

“Different how? C'mon, the pizza is getting cold.”

“I thought I was supposed to look different. Like, people would know you popped my cherry. Isn't there some sort of indicator? Like the turkey thing? It pops out to show people you were deflowered?”

She's so fucking adorable I can't stand it, so I put the pizza down on her counter and walk back into the bathroom, gathering her into my arms.

“Bella, I don't think you look any different. Maybe more beautiful. Definitely a little crazier, but that's a daily change for you.”

I smile at her reflection in the mirror, and kiss the top of her head. She turns and kisses my jaw before shuffling out, making crude gestures and then grabbing a slice of pizza. “Rich Kid, you really need to vary the takeout. It's all we've eaten lately.”

“Speaking of branching out, Bella, can we get back to my question? Do you have a temp job lined up this week?”  
  
“Huh? Oh, no,” she answers around a mouthful of pizza, taking a swig of the Diet Coke I'd taken from her still barren refrigerator to wash it down. “Why?”

“Well... I have a few ideas for you.” That statement goes over about as well as I'd expected.

“Rich Kid, you are playing with thermite, here, and you're no Adam or Jamie.”

“Baby Swan, seriously. Listen to me. You walked in last week and tore the place up in a single morning. My marketing and customer support folks make good money, certainly better than what you're making answering phones and pounding salt. What if you came to work for the company part-time? You wouldn't report directly to me, so there wouldn't be a conflict.”

“Why part-time then, as long as you're parking this Trojan horse in front of me? There's always a catch.”

“Well, if you could make the same amount part-time as you are full-time temping, I was thinking maybe you could put the rest of the time to good use.”

“I'm not walking shelter dogs or babysitting for the Jolie-Pitts, Rich Kid. I don't like children or animals all that much.”  
I roll my eyes.

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of you quitting your fanfic hobby and writing something for real.”

She stops, and her mouth gapes open, showing me a mouthful of half-chewed pizza.

One eye narrows as she asks, “You aren't shitting me, are you Edward? You are really fucking serious here.”

“Look, Bella, I'm not going to pretend this is entirely altruism, because I'd be lying. For one thing, I hate knowing you are at some job that bores you to tears and doesn't take advantage of that incredible intellect of yours. For another, if you are working in the building, I can see you all the time. Thirdly? Most of our documentation is an unholy mess. Lastly, and probably most importantly, I want you to be happy, Baby Swan. You aren't happy like this. You are mediocre. You are far too precious to be living a mediocre life, especially when you don't want to be.”

“So let me get this straight, Rich Kid. You are willing to pay me what I'm already making so that I can work in your building, eat lunch with you regularly, fix your shitty user docs because you employ a bunch of tools, and let me be a writer in a garret?

“Pretty much.” “You know what Rich Kid?” “No, Baby Swan, what?”  
  
“I think maybe I could fall in love with Edward, too. He seems like a really nice guy.”

We finish our pizza, and put the leftovers in the refrigerator. Mr. Horrible is leering as we head back to her bedroom, but I know she's far too sore for a repeat performance. I settle for a few not-so-chaste kisses before she curls up against me, her leg thrown over mine, once again rubbing up against my now-painful hard-on.

“Edward?” she mumbles, sounding half-asleep. “Yes, Bella?” “Rosalie lied. You are someone's Mr. Wonderful.” God, I hope she's right.

~ B~

When Edward's fucking electronica goes off at the hairy ass-crack of dawn-thirty this time, I am somewhat prepared, if not amused. I forgot to ask if his obsessive-compulsive chief-executive ways will apply to me in my new position as part-time writer-in-residence. Judging by the way he's turning on lights and pulling blankets off me, however, I think my question has been answered.

He's already made it into my shower when I stumble into the kitchen, attempting to start coffee only to discover he's already started it. I have a brief moment of wondering whether I can request he use a funnel or IV to speed my caffeination process, but decide instead to get dressed while the coffee finishes brewing. The bath last night counts for something, right?

I head back to my bedroom to pick clothes, emerging in less than five minutes, wearing a long blue wrap skirt and one of my favorite t-shirts, solid black with a skull that says “Drop Dead.” I reach for the mug of coffee Rich Kid has so helpfully poured for me, only to have it cruelly snatched away at the last second.

“Bella? You cannot wear that to work.”

“Huh?”

I'm still rubbing my eyes and I fail to understand why I can't wear clothes to work.

“You cannot walk into the office with girlfriend status wearing a shirt that says “Drop Dead.” Do you want everyone to hate you even before you start telling them off?”

The man does have a point. If I piss them off before I speak, it ruins all the fun of pissing them off when I speak. I shuffle back to the bedroom to change, but at least the shirt nazi frees the spice flow so I can get my java on.

I return, mug emptied, wearing the matching top to the skirt that I unearthed from a pile on the closet floor, and a hoodie tossed over the whole mess. Since Rich

Kid starts gathering phones and laptops and directing himself toward the door, I assume that wrinkled is acceptable, while antisocial sentiments are not, information I should file away for future reference. Companies generally don't care much about temps since they don't come back every day.  
  
We are almost to the Ode to Greedmobile when I realize I am missing something very important, and head back to the apartment. I see Rich Kid twitching out of the corner of my eye, but you know, gang aft agley, dude. Once I'm through the outside door, though, I'm racing, because I'm sure his anal-retentive ass will leave me stranded if I'm not back within whatever he determines is a reasonable amount of time to keep him waiting under the terms of the Geneva Conventions.

I manage to return in less than five minutes, ignoring his pointed stare and raised eyebrow. There's no point in having a bag of tricks if you are going to show them all in the first five minutes. We are silent driving to his building, with nothing other than the music playing on his iPod and the hum of the engine to entertain us.

We arrive at the building, and I'm not exactly surprised to see that most of the offices are still dark. Fancy Mr. Workaholic CEO being nutso enough to show up to work before most of his employees. All I know is there had better be a fucking pot of coffee with my name engraved on it when I walk through the door. And no one better be throwing any actual sheep.

I follow him down dark hallways until we reach his office, and sure enough, there is a coffee pot with a fresh-smelling pot already brewed. I peek at the set-up, and realize he has the thing connected to an ancient-looking laptop. Seriously? He's programmed the thing to brew his coffee for him? Rich Kid obviously needs a new hobby. Like polishing his johnson. Although... wow... I guess that's sort of my job now, isn't it?

“So, um, Edward? What am I supposed to do?” “Human resources is supposed to meet us here.” “Um, at this hour?” “When the CEO calls, people listen.”

I can't believe he has the balls to wink at that statement. I feel for whoever else has to haul ass out of bed this early in the morning at his royal majesty's command.

He takes off, and I pour myself a cup of coffee, using what can only be his mug; this thing seriously has fucking vi commands on it. Even I'm not that nerdy. My favorite coffee mug is a chipped old thing I got for donating to NPR. Nerdy, but not “Linus Torvalds is my homeboy” nerdy.

I take a few sips, and close my eyes, hoping to grab a power nap while I'm waiting for whatever HR lackey drew the short straw today. I'm startled awake by the sound of heels clicking at a fast clip, and my first thought is to wonder who the fuck wears heels at this ungodly hour. Rich Kid had to forcibly remove the Cthulhu slippers, which I was totes wearing to work until he put the kibosh on them.

“Miss Swan?”

Well fuck me senseless. HR is apparently none other than Rosalie Cullen. This should go about as well as holding a beer-chugging contest at a firing range.

“G'morning Rosalie.”  
  
There's no greeting, and I assume I'm still persona non grata after the pageant and ensuing nuclear holocaust afterward. Whatever, honey. Your brother fucked me senseless last night, so at least some of what you heard no longer applies.

“Miss Swan, I understand from my brother that you have a varied job... er... history. Can I ask exactly what you currently do?”

“Oh, sure. You know, 'the usual. I bowl. Drive around. The occasional acid flashback.'” Rosalie raises a single eyebrow in that same way my kindergarten teacher did when I wouldn't share my crayons. Apparently, in her world, The Dude does not abide. I sigh. “I've been temping since I got my undergrad degree, Rosalie. Whatever they ask me to do, I do.”

“So essentially, you are qualified for secretarial work. Yet my brother indicates he'd like to bring you on as a consultant? Specifically in terms of customer support documentation?”

“Look, Rosalie, either get off the high horse or ride that fucker like a butch bottom, but don't patronize me. I have a Bachelor's degree with honors in English from Cornell, and I graduated summa cum laude. Let's cut the crap, okay? You still think your brother is slumming. My friends' behavior yesterday did nothing to alleviate your concerns, and I get that. So how about if you go ahead and take a look at the shit I rewrote last week that the illiterate morons you currently employ couldn't fucking figure out, and then you get back to me? In the meantime, I'm tired as all hell. Your freak of a brother—who could wake fucking roosters— got me up at some ungodly hour that I'm pretty sure qualifies as “still nighttime,” so I'm going to lay down over here on the fucking floor and take a little nap while you decide whether or not I'm qualified to work at the company that seems to exist solely for people to post drunk pictures and, in return, get ads for diet nonsense shoved in their faces.”

Rosalie stalks off and I check to make sure Edward really had left me alone in his office before I curl up on the floor, hood up, and go back to sleep.

~ E~

Rosalie finds me in Jasper's office, where I'm perched on the edge of his desk, sipping coffee and regaling him with stories from yesterday. I've just gotten to the part where Rosalie punches Bella's friend Emmett, when my sister stomps in, nostrils flaring. Shit, I should have known better than to leave the two of them alone, but all

Rosalie had to do was fill out some fucking tax forms. How complicated could it be?

“Edward,” she rants, “I don't care that this is your company. I refuse to let this girl take advantage of you. She's a fucking temp!”

I look over to see Jasper take another sip of his coffee and lean back in his chair. Traitor. He saw the work Bella did last week, and to cap it, she also took a look at some of the CSS, and showed Jasper why the site looked like shit on most of the Mac browsers. The least he could do for me would be speak up here, but instead, he's acting like he has front-row seats for a heavyweight title fight.

Looks like it's up to me to deal with my sister.  
  
“Rosalie, let's get things straight here. Number one, you work for me. Therefore, you abide by my hiring decisions. Number two, Bella is more than qualified for the position based on a work sample submitted last week. She is bright, capable, and far more qualified than her work history might indicate. Number three— and this is the final point I'm making—is that you were supposed to meet with her to go through the necessary paperwork, not re-evaluate her credentials. Now, if we are through here, why don't you leave the paperwork with me so I can do your job for you, while you return to your office and seriously consider whether working here is what you really want to be doing?”

She turns on her heel and stalks off without another word, and I growl, realizing it's barely 7:30 and I've already gotten into a fight with my HR director and abandoned my new girlfriend.

“You could have helped there, Jasper. You saw her work.” “Yes, Edward, I could have, but I didn't want Rosalie to think I was sticking my neck out for you because  
we're friends, Edward. You needed to put her in her place. What's her issue with Bella, anyway?”

“Jasper, I haven't even told you the half of yesterday's events yet. Why don't we meet for lunch and I can tell you the rest? In the meantime, I have to find Bella. She may very well have spray-painted Rosalie's office in an homage to Pink Floyd by now.”

Jasper laughs and grabs his coffee. “I think I'm going to join you, Edward. I want to see exactly what your little hippie chick is doing, myself.” It doesn't take us long to get to my office, and...

Baby Swan is gone. She's completely disappeared. I'm trying not to panic, but what the fuck could my sister have done to her to make her vanish that quickly? I pick up my phone and dial Rosalie's extension, but she doesn't answer, most likely stewing in her bad temper.

I turn to Jasper, who has pulled my desk chair all the way out, and is sitting in it, silently laughing, with tears rolling down his face.

“Jas, what the fuck? Rosalie has pissed Bella off the very second I convince her to come work her and get out of the temp job rut she's been in, and all you can do is laugh at me?”

I'm seriously concerned at this point that he's either going to vomit or have a heart attack, since he's gasping for air and swinging his arm wildly. It takes me noticing a few jabs of his arm to realize he's actually trying to point, so I circle my desk to determine what's caused his hysteria.

I take one look under my desk, and close my eyes. I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry, but Jasper has pulled my desk chair out only to find Baby Swan sound asleep under my desk. One arm is curled under her head as a pillow, while the other clutches the vi mug in which I usually have my coffee.  
Jasper is valiantly trying to stop laughing, and finally, he manages to choke something out.

“Edward, I have to get back to my office so I can get some work done. I'll call Alice and we'll meet you for lunch today at the usual time. But Dude? Carlisle was bang on. You are so completely fucked. I mean, look at her! She's fucking sound asleep under your desk. Drooling. Like she doesn't have a care in the world, after a round with your sister in serious evil mode. You need to fucking marry this girl, Edward. She's absolutely perfect.”

The scariest thing about this entire morning? I think Jasper might be right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-outs to erinmiyu for the Dune reference, siouxchef for the Pecker reference, and FF.net reviewer kikikinz for requesting The Big Lebowski. The Dude always abides. ;)


	13. There's Ethiopian Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's food. Of the Ethiopian variety.

Nothing says “most embarrassing moment of your life” better than your boyfriend/head mucky-muck—and his best friend—finding you sleeping under his desk drooling all over your favorite hoodie. Obviously, my first day at a real job is going swimmingly before any person's work day should even be beginning.  
I crawl out from under the desk as Jasper leaves, wincing at the look on Edward's face. Shit. I knew this whole corporate shindig wasn't for me. I can't even start the damn job before I'm getting fired.

“Edward, I'm sorry. Really, I am. I was just so damn tired and... god, I'm sorry, but your sister was a raging bitch with a perma-case of PMS and I'll be damned if someone is going to think I'm fucking my way to employment.”

He sighs, and I hang my head. It is a true testament to my inability to function in normal society when my fucking boyfriend has to fire me from my first real job.

Maybe I should have kept my thoughts on his bitch of a sister to myself. However, I refuse to cry, and skirt around his desk to pick up my bags before heading to the door.

“I'm sorry, Bella. I didn't think it would be like that. I wouldn't have left if I'd had any idea Rose would be so... Mama Lion. I brought the paperwork... please, if you'll stay, I'll personally make sure you won't have to deal with her again.”

“You want me to stay, Edward?” I'm so shocked, I drop my bags. “I totally understand if you don't want to after this morning with Rosalie...”  
  
Now I'm laughing like a fucking loon. When will I quit trying to figure out what he's thinking? I'll never get it right, and all I keep doing is recreating the same situations over and over again, awash in miscommunication.

“Rich Kid, I figured you were going to fire me for going off on your sister like that.”

Thank god, he starts laughing, too. “Hell no, Baby Swan. Rosalie has... issues when it comes to people trying to take anyone in our family for a ride. She tends to strike first and worry about whether she was right or wrong later.”

That sobers me up a little bit. All she wants is to protect her brother. She may tease him mercilessly within the boundaries of the family, but any outsider trying to fuck with her baby brother is going to face her formidable bitchnastic moves.

“Rich Kid, maybe this is a bad idea then. I don't want to take advantage of you. I don't even want it to look like I'm taking advantage of you.”

“Bella, we've been through this already. If I hadn't seen how much you can help us, I could understand how someone might assume that. Honestly, if I didn't think you had something bigger in your future, I'd hire you full-time in a second and fire one of the—what did you call them?—tools I currently have working here. I know that isn't what you want, though, and it would be exactly like temping: just another rut.”

“Am I allowed to mack on the CEO in his office, Rich Kid?” “Just this once, Baby Swan.”

I give him one not-so-quick kiss with maybe a tiny bit of church tongue before picking up my bags. “Okay, Mr. Cullen. Show me where I'll be working.”

# # #

I'm busy reading documents and plotting my new coworkers' collective demise in my brand-new Corpora- Cube when I notice a pair of ironed khakis standing next to my desk. None of my coworkers have dared step this close to my personal space since I growled at one this morning for touching my toys. No one touches Nunzilla.

Except, apparently, Jasper does, and he expertly winds the Nunzilla toy up and sets her waddling across the desk, spewing sparks the whole way.

“Bella, I'm supposed to inform you that it's quitting time and your presence is requested at lunch. Really, though, I want to ask if you aren't a developer at heart. I mean, the toys...”

I roll my eyes.

“Jasper, I'd go nuts as a code monkey. Seriously. I know just enough about CSS to be dangerous, and that's all. Now, if you could quit defiling Mother Superior here, what's for lunch?”

“Grilled Bella. Alice is a wee bit pissed.”  
  
Shit. I may not have a “popped cherry indicator” but Alice is like some kind of crazy Miss Cleo when it comes to major events in my life. Something tells me lunch isn't going to go well, even if she isn't aware that, prior to yesterday, I was a lifelong V-Club Member.

# # #

Lunch is... oh sweet butter-top Jesus, it's Ethiopian. Did I even know there was an Ethiopian restaurant near here? We take our seats, Alice next to me and Edward across from me. I let Edward order for me, so distracted by what's to come that I can't even focus. Rich Kid eating with his hands is going to be so porntastic that I'm already squirming. Alice is looking at me oddly, but Rich Kid has a smirk plastered on his face, which tells me this is all a part of some devious plan.

The food arrives, and Alice and Jasper are chattering away, Alice nearly shaking in her seat about some new fragrance she's working on that's supposed to smell like a chocolate cupcake. Is she talking about perfume? Wouldn't that make someone just want to lick you? Sort of like... dear god... he's using a bit of injera to scoop up what-the-fuck-ever he's eating, and my mouth drops open. Those... fingers... and then they head to his... mouth...

A sharp elbow to my ribs brings me back to reality. Fucking Alice. “Bella Swan! You slept with him!” she hisses.

I choke on a piece of injera I was absentmindedly nibbling on, and she thwacks my back under the guise of assisting me. Both she and I know it's retaliation for not telling her.

“Stop it, Alice. We are not talking about this now.” “Gentlemen, if you could excuse us for a minute?” Alice asks politely. Of course, she then digs her bony  
little fingers into my arm and drags me off toward what I assume are the restrooms. “You slept with him, Bella! You've known him what? A week? And you slept with him?”

“Um, Alice, are we really having this conversation? You of the try-before-you-buy? I'm assuming you slept with Jasper last weekend!”

“That's true, but that's me. You aren't like me, Bella!”

I have no idea what comes over me, but I burst into tears. Even I know I'm fucking Sybil right now, but everything about the past two days just hits me like a ton of bricks: the show, the shit with Jamie, the sex with Edward, the showdown with Rosalie... I'm a fucking mess. I need a drink. Or a Xanax. Maybe both.

“Aw, shit, Bella, please don't cry. This isn't just sex, is it? You are seriously falling for this guy!” I'm already crying so hard I'm hiccuping to breathe, my emotions nothing but a huge jumble.

“Alice, this is so stupid. I know he likes me. I know he cares about me. Fuck, he gave me a job. But I don't know what I'm doing, and yes, I slept with him, but that's only adding more to this mess, and I shouldn't have slept with him because now I'm just confused and fucked up and he's going to leave me eventually and I'll be a wreck when he does.” I have to stop to catch my breath again, and Alice pounces.

“Um, Bella, I hate to break it to you, but you are pretty much a wreck right now. Are you in love with him? ”

“Alice, don't be ridiculous,” I scoff. “I've known him a week. How could I be in love with him? You don't fall in love with people in a week unless you are in a Lifetime movie or a romance novel. Or, you know, a fanfic.”

“Bella, sweetie... even trite shit has to be based on reality somewhere.”

She smiles, looking past me.

“Maybe you stepped right into a fairy tale, Bella. Just try to enjoy it, will you?”

I assume she'll drag me back to the table, but instead, she walks away, and I'm suddenly wrapped in Edward's arms as he croons to me.

“Bella, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have teased you like that. I forgot. Honestly, I just wasn't thinking about how overwhelming this all must be. I keep pushing you, much too quickly. Let me... can I take you home?”

I'm not sure what he means by “home” but I allow him to guide me, half-carrying me, out the door of the restaurant. He lifts me easily once we're through the door, as if I were no heavier than a child, and carries me the two blocks to his car.

~ E~

I am a complete moron.

I lost my virginity at 15 to a girl who was a year older. She was in A/V club and thought I was “hot.” I liked her, but certainly wouldn't have even entertained the idea of falling in love with her. I don't think I've ever had feelings for someone I've slept with other than physical attraction or possibly friendship.

Until Baby Swan, that is.

I could see Alice ribbing her, undoubtedly prompted by my teasing with the food and restaurant choice and Bella's obvious reaction. She was flushed, and I could see her breathing speed up as I ate. I was hoping to send her back to her apartment with her banged-up laptop, sufficiently excited enough to think of me all afternoon, after which I could seduce her when my work day was over.

Being an ass, however, I'd forgotten when concocting my nefarious plan that Baby Swan wasn't used to seduction. She wasn't used to much of anything. Add on a huge fight yesterday with James, having me pressure her into accepting a job, and then her run-in with my sister, and it's no wonder she broke down. I'm an idiot.

I check to make sure that she has her laptop when I help her into the car, still sniffling and hiccuping from her crying jag. I'm taking her to my apartment this time, not hers. I know that her apartment is cool and hip and where she feels comfortable, but I'm afraid that if we go there right now, she'll pull on her wallowing uniform and retreat into herself again. I can't let that happen.

Her sniffling has slowed, yet I lift her into my arms again to carry her to the elevator. She giggles, then yells, “Don't go near that elevator—that's just want they want us to do... trap us in a steel box and take us down to the basement.”

I set her down and look at her. “Baby Swan, seriously? Drug-addled gonzo journalist book quotes?”

She smiles and reaches for my hand, and I assume that's all the communication I'm going to get at the moment. We head upstairs, and she takes off to the bathroom with one bag, leaving her laptop behind. I grab a beer from the fridge and call Jasper to let him know I won't be back in, and ask him to check with my admin to take any meetings I might have scheduled.

I flop on the couch, waiting for Bella to come out of the bathroom. When she does, I see that she's washed her face and combed her hair, putting some of her armor back on. I hold out my arms and she comes straight over, settling herself in my lap.

“Are you okay, Baby Swan? I am honestly sorry for teasing. I forget that... well, that this is new to you.”

She answers wordlessly again, this time with her lips and tongue against my neck. I groan, instantly hard, having already been dealing with my arousal watching her at the restaurant. I have no doubt that she's more than willing to distract me, but we still haven't finished the conversation we should have had yesterday. As I'm trying to summon up the willpower to stop her, she changes position, straddling my lap as her deft fingers begin work on the buttons of my shirt. When she finally pulls my shirt free and removes my t-shirt, her hands touch my chest, her mouth meets mine, and I've suddenly forgotten what I was trying to talk to Bella about in the first place.

Her skirt wraps around, and when she shifts, it exposes one leg all the way up to her hip. I grasp her hips, planning to lift her off my lap so that we can talk about what's happening with us, but the second I touch her skin, I'm lost, moaning as she chooses that exact second to nip at my earlobe, her teeth sending secret messages straight to my cock and seizing any semblance of control I might have been able to gather.

I turn my mouth to hers again as my hands part her skirt, and I mentally nominate the inventor of the wrap skirt for sainthood. She slides her hoodie off, and now her arms are bare along with her legs. Our kissing is frantic as my fingers move to the hem of her top, dragging it up her chest as she grinds against me again. I'm trying to remember that she must still be sore, but as she helps me remove her top, I realize she's wearing a sheer mesh bra. I'm having trouble remembering to breathe when I see her, compelled to suckle her nipples through the fabric.

Some small part of my brain reminds me that I need to make sure she isn't too sore to continue, because the last thing Mr. Horrible and I want to do is hurt her. I slide my fingers into her panties--some ridiculous cotton things with what looks like a Hawaiian print--and realize she's already wet. Fuck. I'm gone.

I lift her to her feet, eliciting a gasp as I push her away from me, but she quickly realizes my intent as I rip open my fly and drop my jeans to the floor, stepping out of them even as my mouth crashes over hers again. I don't bother removing her bra or skirt, but yank her panties down her thighs until she can step out of them.

Keeping her skirt parted, I lift her so that she's straddling me again as I return to my seat on the couch. As she settles on my lap, she slides her wetness along my cock and I know there's just no way I can resist her long enough to do this the right way. All I can do now is attempt to go slow enough to not hurt her, letting her control the speed in hopes that I won't cause her pain.

I let one hand slide to her ass as the other positions my cock at her entrance. From here, I have to allow her to take me in at her own pace, and I steel myself to hold still as long as she needs me to. The temptation to thrust inside her is killing me. She pulls away from kissing me to breathe, resting her head on my shoulder and licking at my neck before she shocks the hell out of me as she takes me into her in one smooth motion.

“God, Bella, what are you doing?” I manage to gasp, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but I have no hope as she begins riding me, slowly at first, then gradually increasing her speed. She's panting and whimpering, her mouth attacking my neck and shoulder and I'm rambling nonsense at her, my brain shutting down at the feel of her around me.

“Bella... fuck... Baby Swan... please slow down... I can't...”

Her whimpering has changed into sobbing now, and my stomach clenches for a split second thinking she's hurt herself, until I realize she hasn't slowed her pace in the least. I manage to work one hand between us, wanting to make sure she comes before I do. The second I touch her, she's gone, screaming my name.

She's so lost in her climax that she forgets to keep moving, and I grasp her hips, holding her up slightly while I move my own beneath her. I'm almost there when I suddenly realize what we've forgotten, and I grunt as I yank her off me just before I come all over myself.

“Shit, Bella. Shit, shit, shit.”

~ B~

I'm dazed, willing my eyes to stay open though they want to close and let me slide off into the oblivion of sleep. I'm a little sore, but oh my hell it's so fucking worth it. I wonder how long it will be before I can convince him to do that again.

I'm slow to process that... eyew, he's got spunk all over himself, but even worse, he shoved me off him at some point, and his hand is raking through his hair as he mumbles and swears, swiping his stomach with his t-shirt.

“Edward? Did I do something wrong?”

Christ on a bicycle, this sex shit is complicated. All these years I thought it was just “insert tab A into slot B” and here I am, screwing things up for the second time in as many tries. There are a lot of rules here. Rule number one is to not yell in the middle of it, and I get that. I have no fucking clue what rule number two is, but I'm afraid I'm about to find out.

“Bella, you didn't. I did.”

I'm really at a loss here. I came. He came. Mind you, he did toss me on the couch there, but I'm okay with that...

Oh shit. No, I am not okay with that. He tossed me to the couch because he was about to come, and he's right on the money with his “shit, shit, shit” comment. What was I thinking?

“Edward... I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Really. I shouldn't have done that. Don't blame yourself. I totes...”

Suddenly, I can't stop laughing.

“Bella, this isn't funny. Why the hell are you laughing?”

“Because I seduced you, Edward! I fucking seduced you! Me!”

“Bella!”

Shit, Rich Kid is pissed.

“This isn't funny! Pulling out is not a reliable method of birth control!”

“Oh. You're worried about getting me pregnant?”

“Well, yes, Bella! Aren't you worried? Why aren't you worried? I know you aren't on the Pill; I've been staying with you all week!”

“I can't get pregnant, Rich Kid.” Shit. I should have cried and begged him to take me to the fucking pharmacy for that pill for people who  
don't think. Instead, I give him the honest answer because I was the one not thinking. “Baby Swan, I know this is new for you, but you can get pregnant from any pre-ejaculate...”

I pull my hoodie on over my bra and arrange my skirt, not bothering with searching for my panties. I seriously need the hood up for this conversation. Luckily for me, we left the Patron on the table, and I don't particularly care that the shot glass is dirty. Again, I down two shots. If we have to keep having these conversations, I can seriously see myself turning into an alcoholic.

“I know, Edward; I'm not an idiot. And don't think I'm playing dumb so I can give birth to Edward Cullen the Not-Quite-Third. I physically can't get pregnant. I figured you were trying to be considerate about the possibility of STDs or whatever, and I appreciate that. Really, I do. But if all you are worried about is inseminating me with the Cullen Messiah or whatever, don't be. It can't ever happen.”

~ E~

I'd almost think she was making the whole thing up, bullshitting me. Until she drinks the tequila. Until I look into her eyes. She isn't lying. She's devastated.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I'm afraid to touch her. She looks like frozen glass, about to shatter at the slightest pressure. “There's not much to tell, Rich Kid. I'm defective. Barren. Sterile. Useless.”  
  
“Did you have...”

“I'm sure whatever you are imagining is far worse than the reality. I had fucked-up ovaries that apparently didn't know what they were supposed to be doing. Grew these disturbing little benign tumors that, quite frankly, make me nauseous to even think about, so I'll let you Google that shit if you want. Suffice to say that I had surgery to remove them, and lost both my ovaries in the process. I'm essentially a 25-year-old who's already been through menopause, and I take hormones to replace whatever I'm missing. I'm not going to sprout a dick or anything, but my lady parts... they are missing. Even if I do still talk to them as if they are there.”

“Did you...”

“Did I want kids? I have no fucking idea. I mean, in the abstract, I guess maybe, but shit, have you ever tried to score an action figure in a toy store on a Saturday morning before Christmas? Jesus Shoe-Shopping Christ, that's enough to make anyone opt for sterilization. And, you know... I never thought I'd be with anyone who wanted them.”

“How old...”

“I was 17 years old. I had the surgery the summer before I left for Cornell.”

She's not letting me finish any of my questions, and I realize it's because she doesn't want this to drag out any longer than it has to. This isn't a conversation she wanted to have with the guy she's been dating for a week. It's certainly not a conversation she wants to be having after she's had sex for only the second time.

I realize she's thought about this, and while she might have grieved about it in the abstract, this is the first time she's faced the reality that having sex can never have a logical conclusion for her. Like an idiot, I've once again gotten caught up in the moment and forgotten to pay attention to what she needs.

I lean toward her, but she backs away. Every layer I peel away reveals one more reason she thinks I'll reject her in the end. I'm just getting to know her, and I can't think about having children someday. It's obvious, however, that she's already going there, already thinking that the lack of biological children would be a deal-breaker for anyone.

“Baby Swan, will you please come the fuck over here and let me hold you?”

She's crying, again, and I'm wondering if any girl has ever cried this much in such a short period of time. I wait to speak until she's settled back on my lap, giving me the chance to gather my thoughts.

“Bella, I haven't thought about having kids at all. It's not even on my radar. But I can tell you that wouldn't be a factor in deciding whether or not to have a relationship with you. That decision has already been made.”

“But what if you decide later on that you do want kids, Edward?”

“Fuck, Baby Swan, if I decide that, then there are tons of different ways to get them. You think I'd suddenly decide I want a baby and kick you to the curb because you can't give me one? If you think I'm that shallow...”  
  
I'm hurt that she'd think that.

“The last thing I think you are is shallow, Rich Kid. Shit, you wouldn't have let me in your car at the gallery if you were. I do think kids are important to a lot of people, though. More so than they realize a lot of the time.”

“Let me guess, Baby Swan. Does James know?”

“Of course. I was already living with them when I had the surgery. They took turns taking care of me afterward.”

“And what did they say about it?”

“Well, Mitt-Mitt told me that the right guy would love me no matter what. Jamie told me it didn't matter and I'd always have them.”

“Baby Swan, I think—and I can't believe I'm saying this—you should listen to Emmett a bit more. He may be paranoid about the government, but I think he understands more about life. Or at least, more about your life.”

“James loves me.”  
I'm sure that he does, but I'm also pretty damn sure that he's afraid she'll leave him. I know that he loves her just as much as his brother seems to, but it also appears that in his desire to make her feel better about herself, he's made her dependent on them. I may have done the same with the job, but I really want her to figure out how much she can do on her own. The job is just a stepping stone, or so I hope.

“Baby Swan, why don't you clean up your face again, and we'll go get something for dinner? And then we can come back here, take a shower, and you can have a lovely reunion with my high-thread-count sheets.”

“Rich Kid, you are way too fucking nice to me. I'm starting to worry you are gonna go all Ted Bundy when I least expect it.”

I laugh, but I know that she just hasn't had enough people love her for exactly who she is, flaws and all. James wants to keep her exactly as she is. Emmett wants to protect her. Alice wants her to find the right man, thinking that will finally make her happy. And fuck me if I don't want to be that man, the one person who finally loves her exactly as she is while letting her figure out who she wants to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BritishBitches, please thank your father for "Christ on a bicycle." Thanks to Feisty Y. Beden for correcting my mental lapse about Ethiopian bread! And Mr. kikikinz, welcome to Mr. Horrible, and I do believe you shall be doing laundry for the next month for the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas challenge. Johnny Depp + Hunter S. Thompson made it easy.


	14. There's an Oral Fixation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an oral fixation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to DivaNikki for “smack the drag right out of him.” The little Golden Girls ref is a shout-out to the late Bea Arthur, who, along with Candice Bergen, taught me it was okay to be loud and snarky.

Waking up once again on sheets this fuckawesome has me contemplating marriage. To the sheets, that is. Certainly, being naked on them has to be indulging in at least two of the mortal sins... lust, gluttony? Probably sloth should be tossed in there as well since I just want to lie here all day on these sheets.

The truth is I want to get laid all day here on these sheets, but it's Tuesday. At least, I assume it's Tuesday. I look at the clock and realize it's just after three in the morning. Rich Kid is next to me, and I wonder if I was sleeping restlessly, because he's curled up in a ball at the far side of the bed holding a pillow in his arms as if to shield himself from an attack.

Unable to resist that hotness, I scoot over toward him, gently wrestling the pillow away without waking him. He's so fucking pretty when he sleeps that I can't stop myself laying down again, facing him. I begin touching him, running my fingers through his hair. Even in sleep, his mouth curves into that lopsided smile. Fuck. Hot.

My fingers are tempted by his face, and I let them move to his eyebrows, which, quite honestly, could use just a wee bit of manscaping. I'm not talking metrosexual arched eyebrows, or anything like Jamie's big-ass Joan Crawford specials, but then again, I'm not sure he'd still be Rich Kid if I started messing with him like that.

By stroking his eyebrows with my fingers, I'm forced to answer the siren call of those little wrinkles in his forehead, there all the time, even when he sleeps. So fucking intense, he is. The only time those adorable furrows vanish is right after he gets off, and when he laughs. I realize then, that the signs that he's stressed disappear a lot when he's with me. That can only be a good thing, can't it?

Of course, he's wearing no shirt and just a pair of those cute sport briefs and my fingers start meandering: first to his chest where they might accidentally-on-purpose brush over his nipples on their way down to his stomach and finally, the band of his underwear. I slide a single finger under the elastic, teasingly dragging it back and forth, and he sighs, but doesn't wake up. Mr. Horrible, however, isn't as sound a sleeper as Rich Kid.

I feel ten kinds of devious as I slide his underwear off, tugging to get them out from under him, but then I'm left with a decision. I've read all about waking guys up by pleasuring them in fics and romance novels, but what's the best way to go about that? I mean, won't he be pissed that he's missed some of the show? I could probably touch him, but I think I need lotion or something like that, and I'm just not that motivated to find some in his place. I could hop on, but that seems crass and rude, like I'm violating him since I don't have his consent. Well, actually most of this is violating him without his consent but having full-on sex with him just seems, well, above and beyond ill-mannered. Of course, that leaves me only one option.

I take a deep breath, not completely convinced I'm up for this, but determined to at least try. Common sense says to start at the top and work my way down. I run my tongue along his jaw, rough with the day's stubble. He stirs, but doesn't wake up, so I get braver, turning my attention to his neck, licking and sucking as I make my way to his chest. When my mouth finally gets back to his nipples, I feel his hips move under me, and I look up, expecting to see him awake, but there's still nothing. How many erotic dreams does Rich Kid fucking have that he can sleep through all this? Or is it impossible in real life to seduce the unconscious?

By this point, I'm bound and determined that I am going to make him wake the fuck up, so when I reach his navel, I dip my tongue in.

Nothing. I nibble my way down, adding my fingers running from hip to hip, where I already know that he's ticklish. A squirm, but his breathing doesn't even pick up.

Actually, this could be a good thing. If he's a sound enough sleeper, I can get some of this stuff figured out. Guys, to a one, apparently love this. I've read enough fic to figure this out. Now... to determine my approach.

I close my eyes and pretend it's a popsicle, licking from base to tip. It twitches, which I hope means I'm onto something here, so I do it again before taking just the tip into my mouth and sucking, careful to keep my teeth covered. Edward's moan breaks through my concentration, and the sound is such a fucking turn-on I nearly stop what I'm doing.

“Bella? What?”

His voice is groggy and raspy from sleep, and I feel his hand in my hair. I'm not sure if he's trying to stop me or urge me on, but I figure, short of him yanking me off him I must be doing okay.

~ E~

I wake up from one of the most erotic dreams I can remember having—and that includes those embarrassing teen years—only to find I wasn't dreaming at all. Bella has woken me... sweet baby Jesus... by taking me in her mouth. I have absolutely no idea what might have prompted this, but a quick look over at the clock shows me that it's almost half-past three in the morning and I'm unable to form a coherent thought.

Her hair is loose, and I feel it brushing against my thighs as she moves her head, her tongue curling along the underside of my cock as she moves. I try to wrap my head around what I'm waking up to, but my first reaction is to wonder where the ever-loving fuck a girl who had only ever kissed her gay best friend learned how to give head. If she hasn't learned anywhere else, Baby Swan is a natural.

I'm trying to remember that this is Bella, and that days ago the girl was a goddamned virgin, but my god, the feeling of her warm, wet mouth on me...

I finally gather enough control to clutch at her shoulders to pull her off when... oh fuck... she adds one hand to her mouth, squeezing as she strokes, following her mouth. The other hand is... shit... I can't even think about her other hand as she fucking caresses my balls and...

I'm trying to pull her off me... really, I am, but she doesn't stop, and then she runs her tongue along the frenum and...

“Ahhh... Bella... you have to... shit... Bella... I'm going to...”  
  
Fuck. She doesn't pull off me in time.

What she does do is gag and spit my spunk all over the sheets, gasping for air.

“Edward... what the fuck is that?” she's screaming as she runs to the bathroom.

I'm holding my face in my hands trying not to laugh my ass off as she returns, furiously scrubbing at her tongue with a washcloth.

“Baby Swan, seriously. I am so sorry. You just wouldn't... move. But shit, that was hot.”

“Edward, seriously. Is it always like that?”

“What do you mean, 'is it always like that?' I'm assuming you know the mechanics of a male orgasm...”

“But... but... everything I read says that the spunkcipient just swallows it like it's no big deal. That was like nasty rancid tapioca that never set up right...”

Now it's me running for the bathroom because I am absolutely about to piss myself at her reaction. I don't know what the hell she's read about fellatio, but it sounds like porn. And even then they don't always swallow. Who's been feeding her this line of shit?

When I return, she's relatively calmer, although she's yanked the sheets off the bed and is digging in my linen closet for fresh ones. I step behind her, moving her hair over one shoulder as I kiss her neck.

“Did I remember to thank you for that, Baby Swan? It was... 'phenomenal' is the only word that comes to mind.”

She turns and looks at me apologetically. “I'm sorry I reacted like that, Edward. Really, I am. It just... wasn't at all what I expected.”

The poor girl looks like she just discovered Santa, the fucking Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny aren't real on the same day. “What did you expect?”

“Well, everything I've read said it tasted like fucking candy and shit and I guess I'm an idiot because I thought I'd sort of be all sexy and drink it down like lemonade. I'm sorry, really, Edward. I'm a tool. Next time, I know what to expect.”

She winks at me. Next time? She's already thinking about next time she sucks me off? I've died and gone to heaven. “Baby Swan, you need to stop reading so much and start experiencing. Do you want...”

“Thanks Rich Kid, but let's just get a couple of hours of sleep, okay? I sort of killed the mood there, didn't I? I'm not sure if I'm up to learning that my 'girl juices' don't taste like fucking honeysuckle when I lick them off your face, so we can save that lesson for next time, if that's okay.”

Laughing, I gather her in my arms and kiss her forehead. I really need to start reading some of this crap that she reads. It sounds... fucking hilarious.  
  
“Baby Swan, you are a fucking amazing piece of work. I don't know what the hell you were reading that helped you learn how to do that, but Christ on a croissant that was hot.”

“So it was okay, then?”

“Honestly, Baby Swan, if you are still willing to do that again after your reaction just now, I don't care where you want me to deposit my spunk. Shit, I'll come in my own mouth if that will make you happy.”

She rolls her eyes, and curls up next to me under the covers.

“Rich Kid?” she asks, finally drowsy after her outburst.

“Yes, Bella?”

“You didn't taste like candy, but seeing you like that was pure fucking win. You don't have to come in your own mouth.”

Every time this girl opens her mouth, I fall for her a little bit more. Just saying that in my head lets me know I've gone completely insane.

~ B~

How, after two fucking hours of sleep, is Rich Kid so bright and fucking peppy? After my fucktastic job at sucking him off, he generously allowed us another 45 minutes of sleep. Rat bastard. I woke him up for a middle-of-the-night BJ! You'd think the least he could do would be to let me sleep until eight or something. As it is, I'm going to have to deal with those fools at the office and leave a few comments about the blatant fucking lies these bitches writing fic have laid on me. Candy-coated spunk, my ass.

I've taken to keeping a change of clothes in my bag because you never know when Rich Kid will get a wild hair and want to sleep here, so at least I have clothes for work. Ish. I throw on my underpants before I stumble into the bathroom to brush my teeth with Rich Kid's toothbrush. (Yes, I have panties but not a toothbrush. It's not like I can wear his clothes. Duh.) Edward is wrapping himself in a towel when he spots the text on my underwear, and immediately pushes me against the wall next to the sink, his mouth attacking my neck like some fucking vampire.

“A 413 error, eh, Baby Swan?” he breathes into my ear. “Requested entity too large? That message could seriously go to my head.”

“Don't flatter yourself, Rich Kid. My panties are talking about your ego.”

I escape him and run a brush through my hair, tossing it up in one of those sorority-girl buns that always sound cute on paper but look like shit in real life. I dig through his kitchen for some damn food and find exactly nothing edible; the Quisp has gone stale in our absence. Fuck. There's no point in this two apartments shit if we aren't ever going to be apart, because we never manage to get decent food into either one of them.

“Edward?” “What's the matter, Baby Swan?”  
  
He's drinking coffee, breakfast of champions, to be sure, but I need sugar in me to make the caffeine kick in.

“Do you feel like stopping for breakfast on the way into the office?”

“Do you need breakfast, Bella? We could go to lunch early today if you like.”

Now this is going to be a problem.

“I um... shit. Edward, I sort of made plans to meet Jamie for lunch today. I think he wants to apologize for what happened the other night...”

“Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah, it'll be fine. Mitt-Mitt is coming, so it should go pretty well, I think. And I'll what? Meet you at my apartment after you get out of work? Or do you have plans?”

Shit, how can he not have plans? We've been together like every fucking second.

“Nope. I would have gone to work out after work with Jasper, but he's otherwise occupied these days as well. Let's get to work so I can see you sooner, okay?”

# # #

Lunch. The Royal. Fucking Jamie has zero imagination. God forbid we go anywhere else. He has the day off today for some parent-teacher conference bullshit, and I have no idea why. He teaches kindergarten. They color, right? Do ABCs? What do you have to discuss? “Little Johnny refuses to color inside the lines.” Well, rock on, Little Johnny.

I take the bus from the office and meet Mitt-Mitt outside so we walk in together. Jamie is already seated in his favorite booth when we walk in, and I realize I haven't seen him completely out of drag since I met Edward. It's a strange feeling considering how much time we spent together before.

We exchange some small talk before we order, with Mitt-Mitt railing about online retailers joining the conspiracy to track your sex toy purchases and Jamie ranting about some bitch of a mother who wants him to meet her at her day spa for their conference because she “just can't get away otherwise.” I can sense they are both trying to fill the awkward silence. Usually I'm the one jawing my fool head off, but for once, I have nothing to say.

After our food is delivered, I start picking at my salad, waiting for Jamie to apologize so we can get back to normal. Things have never been weird between us for this long, and I feel like I'm missing my brother right now. Of course, I should know by now to never expect things, right?

“I'm not apologizing,” Jamie announces.

I feel Emmett stiffen beside me, but I continue looking at my salad. Somehow, I know I don't want to see this.  
  
“Jamie, you owe her an apology.”

“No, I fucking well don't, Mitt-Mitt. Just because you are snowed by this rich prick...”

“I'm not snowed, you fuckwit. He's a nice guy. He treats Beauty well. Why can't you fucking accept that?”

I can sense Jamie turning his attention to me, even if I can't see his face.

“You fucked him, didn't you, Bella?”

My voice is quiet and deadly, even if it shakes a little when I answer, “That's none of your fucking concern, Jamie.”

“The hell it isn't, Beauty. Who the fuck has been there to pick up the pieces every time you fall apart? Who was there when you came home from Ithaca, tail between your legs because you didn't get into your ritzy little grad school? You put all your eggs in one fucking basket there, and you are doing it again now with this trust fund baby. What happens when he rejects you, too?”

I want to throw my fork at him like it's a dart, taking out his eye, so I sit on my hands instead. “He won't do that, Jamie. He accepts me for who I am.”

“Oh yeah, Beauty? If that's the case, why did he give you a job working for him? Is temping not good enough for him? Or are you really being paid to fuck him?”

Wow. Sitting on your hands doesn't work at all when your best friend calls you a whore to your face. Who knew? Before I know it, I'm across the table, clawing at him.

“How can you be so fucking hateful, Jamie? I've done everything for you. Everything. I've been your sister and your beard and your fucking dresser and your assistant and your friend. Why are you shitting all over this?”

“Because he's going to dump you like yesterday's newspaper, Beauty. He's no fucking Blaine. There is no happy ending where the poor girl with the quirky friends ends up with the rich guy and the book contract she's dreamed of her whole life, all because he believed in her. But you don't want to hear all that. What the fuck do you think Richie Rich is going to say when you tell him that you aren't able to help him carry on the family name? That fucking you is about as effective as a blow-up doll?”

I hear Mitt-Mitt hiss, but I'm so shocked I can't even react. I guess what they say is true; the more someone knows about you, the more ammunition they have to hurt you. It's obvious that we are causing a scene; all the blue-hairs in the restaurant have turned to look at us, chomping on their dentures like they've stumbled upon a never-before-seen episode of The Golden Girls.

I let go of Jamie, smooth down my favorite “Will Power” Shakespeare t-shirt, and walk calmly out of the restaurant. Karma is with me for all of ten minutes, as a bus is just pulling up as I get to the stop. I'm able to board and be on my way before Mitt-Mitt can settle the bill and try to follow me.

~ E~

It's a bit surprising that I haven't heard from Baby Swan all afternoon. I'm not sure why, but I would have expected her to call me crowing about James' apology, but she hasn't sent me so much as a text message letting me know she got back to her apartment. Hopefully, the two of them have gone to do something this afternoon; she said that he had the day off from teaching. When I reach her apartment at six, however, a nervous feeling comes over me that's exacerbated when Emmett answers my knock instead of Bella.

“Hey, Edward. Come on in. I would have called you, but Bella insisted you needed to stay at work this afternoon.”

Now he's downright scaring me. “Is she okay?” “Go see for yourself.”

I drop my laptop bag at the door, tripping over a chair as I skid my way through the kitchen to her bedroom. I find Bella in fetal position on her bed, a sea of used tissues surrounding her on the covers, and a wastebasket next to her head. I look back at Emmett, who understands my unspoken question and tells me, “It's easier than cleaning up her puke. She never makes it to the bathroom.”

“Is she sick?” I ask him, stupidly still not understanding what I'm seeing. “No. She's been like this since lunch.” “What the fuck happened, Emmett?” “My brother... uh...”

At this point, I want to find James and slap the drag right out of him. What the fuck could he have done that has Baby Swan puking all over herself listening to.... Jesus Wrist-Cutting Christ, what is this emo shit she's listening to?

“Emmett, what is this shit?”

“The music? Uh... hmm. She finished with the Damien Rice about an hour ago... this must be... ah, yes. Trembling Blue Stars.”

Bella makes no move other than shaking like a crackhead. I don't want Emmett to stay, but I'm afraid I won't be able to help Baby Swan if he leaves. He crosses to her, though, and kisses her forehead.

“Beauty, you know I'll be here in five fucking minutes if you need me.” Emmett stops before he passes me, his hand on my shoulder. “Edward, I have faith that you are Blaine on the outside, but Duckie on the inside. Don't fucking blow this.”

I hear the door shut behind him, and Baby Swan is still not moving. I hear her snuffle, then gag, and she's retching into the wastebasket again. Two sides of me are warring; one wants to hunt James down and string him up and the other... well, the other wants to run and hide. Instead, I force myself over to the bed, sitting on the edge and stroking her hair. “Baby Swan? Do you want to talk to me?” She burrows deeper under the covers, pulling her hoodie further over her forehead. “Bella, please.” “Jamie's right, Edward. My mom didn't want me. I can't have kids. And you pay me to fuck you”

“What sort of bullshit is that, Bella? You think I gave you a job because you fuck me? I offered you the job before you fucked me. And it's not fucking. Goddamnit.

You go to one lunch with that asshole and he tears you down and you believe it?'

“Edward, no one would understand what you see in me. What the hell do I have to offer someone like you?”

“Shit, Baby Swan, I wonder what the hell I have to offer you all the time. I'm a computer nerd who happened to hit on the right trend at the right time. I have money that fell into my lap from my family. I haven't had an actual relationship up until now. You are the first person who's ever accepted me for who I am, not what I have.”

“You are going to want kids. You may not think you do right now, but you will. I can't give them to you.” “And Esme couldn't give them to Carlisle, Bella. You might find we aren't what you think.”


	15. There's Beer to Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more than one beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to FF.net reviewers spargelkun for “Tequila of Truth” and eddiesgrl for reminding me that no one has yet used “Christ on a popsicle stick.” That was a total oversight on my part!

My mind is spinning like that fucking Devil's Hole ride. You know, the one where the bottom drops out and you stick to the wall with centrifugal force? Yeah. Except I think my brains are going to end up stuck to the inside of my skull this way and that can't be good for my future career as a theoretical physicist, now can it?

“Edward, what did you say?”

He grimaces when he answers, “I said you might find we aren't what you think.”

That's not it. I mean, obviously I need to know whatever skeletons are in whatever kind of huge-ass walk-in closet rich folks have, but before that... I nearly missed it, but my brain is holding on to some tiny little bit of conversation like a fallen rock climber clinging to his fucking safety line.

“Before that. About you hiring me.” “I didn't give you a job because you fuck me?” He can't be this dense, can he? “No, Edward. Besides that.” I see the change in his eyes the moment he realizes what it was he said.

“It's not fucking, Baby Swan. I'm not fucking you. I could never fuck you. I may want you so damn much that I forget to breathe, but it sure as shit isn't fucking. Don't let him make you think that. Don't ever let him —or anyone—make you think all you are is a fuck.”

We both know there's something we aren't saying here. We aren't ready yet. But Christ on a popsicle stick, just knowing that it's there makes me feel a fuckton better.

I swipe at the piles of tissues on the bed, pushing them aside so I can crawl into his lap. I'm disgusting— sweaty and covered in snot and tears and undoubtedly smelling of puke—and yet he pulls me to him as if I'm the most precious thing in the world.

“Tell me about your parents, Edward.” His chest heaves under me as he takes a deep breath.

“Are you sure? It's a mess. A veritable trainwreck. You could write it as a soap opera script and fans would riot at how ridiculous it is.”

How could he ask? Of course I want to know. I want to know every last fucking thing about him.

“Rich Kid, you just watched me puke into a bucket after my drag queen best friend insulted me by calling out my sterility. You really think you have a bigger trainwreck?”

Now his chest shakes as he laughs, but I can tell it's a bit forced.

“Baby Swan, I have to start by making sure you know that I love my parents, and I know they both love me. That's never been in doubt. Shit, I could use some of your Tequila of Truth to get through this, however.”  
  
This sounds heavy. I hop up and run for the Patron bottle—which is rapidly emptying at the rate we are confessing these deep, dark secrets—and a shot glass. I pour him a shot before climbing back onto his lap, and he shudders as he downs it. Obviously, Rich Kid isn't as intimately acquainted with Señor Patron as I am, his previous shot with me notwithstanding.

“Need training wheels, Rich Kid?”

He rolls his eyes at me before he takes another deep breath and begins, “Carlisle and Esme got married knowing she couldn't have children. He was starting his residency, but they began the whole process of adopting right away, knowing it could take a while.

“Through some freakish occurrence, they didn't wait long at all. Someone wanted to do a private adoption as long as she could select the parents, and a young doctor and his wife sounded... perfect, I guess. Problem is, the birth mother had forty-five days to revoke consent for adoption. Day forty-four was when she called to say she wanted Rosalie back.”

I gasped. You hear all those sob stories, but they never seem to happen to anyone that you know. “But... Rosalie is with them, right?”

“Well, that's where it all gets worthy of a Springer episode. Her birth mother didn't actually want her; she just wanted money. While selling a baby is illegal, there are ways less scrupulous lawyers will work around that. So here's Carlisle, a resident working his ass off, working all kinds of ridiculous hours, while his brand- new wife is devastated at the loss of her daughter she'd only had for six weeks, and they are haggling over how to buy this woman off.”

I'm afraid to speak, but I'm dying to know, “How long did it take to get Rosalie back?”

“She was nearly two by the time the adoption was finalized.”

“Does she remember her birth mother?”

He hesitated, his face guarded. “Unfortunately, all too well. She knows how much money and effort went into getting her back. And... well... how much strain that whole period put on Esme and Carlisle's marriage.”

It's none of my business, but I ask anyway, “Strain? Your parents seem like they are completely in love with each other, even after all this time. That's so rare.”

“They are now, but it wasn't always like that. Two years of fucking around with Rosalie's birth mother, then dealing with a toddler who'd been pretty much neglected...”

“What happened, Edward?” “Carlisle had an affair. One of the nurses at work.”

I nearly reached for my puke bucket again, and this wasn't even my damn story. Jesus Soul-Bearing Christ, what a mess.  
“I take it your dad knocked up the nurse?”  
  
“Yes.”

His hands rake through his hair nervously, and I try to break the tension. “So you are sort of the red-headed bastard stepchild here?”

It does the trick, and he laughs, but it's a short, angry bark, and I want to shrink away from whatever feeling is making him so tense. I'm still on his lap , but I might as well be sitting on a marble statue, and I move to clamber away before he stops me.

“Stay.” I respond to the command, and wait quietly for the next part of his story.

“Esme left Carlisle when she found out. She took Rose and went back to her parents, who are, well, pretty fucking snobbish. Neither Carlisle nor my birth mother really wanted to be together in a relationship, but she had me anyway, then left me with Carlisle.”

This is so fucked up I'm having trouble wrapping my head around it. “So let me get this straight. Your mom is at her parents' with Rose. Carlisle is doing the whole 'bachelor dad' thing with you? And doing his residency? That's fucked up.”

“Exactly.” He pours himself another shot out of bottle I so helpfully left on the bed and continues, “He begged Esme to come back. The shit part of it is that she'd wanted a baby so badly, and here Carlisle had one... and it wasn't hers.”

I looked at him then, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

“I gather they got back together?”

He heaved a shuddering sigh as he tried to compose himself. “Yes, they did. But under it all... Rosalie is jealous that I'm Carlisle's biological son. Esme is reminded of Carlisle's infidelity constantly, even if she does think of me as her own. But...”

A light bulb goes off in my head. “That's why she colors her hair nearly the exact same shade as yours?”

He nods, and I suddenly realize he's exhausted. I slide off his lap and pull him down with me so I can spoon around him on the bed.

“You're all happy, though, Edward. Aren't you?” I feel him nod, but he says nothing.

“You don't need biological children to be happy, then. Isn't that what you were trying to tell me? And even if Rosalie is sometimes jealous... she'll go to the mat for you, right? Which was what her SuperBitch act with me was all about. She knows all too well about people using others for money.”

Another nod. He's still so fucking tense, it's like spooning with an actual goddamned spoon.  
  
“Rich Kid?”

I pause, but get no response.

“Edward Anthony Cullen the Not-Quite-Second, I think you are pretty fucking fabulous. I think your parents are amazing to make it through all that and still end up together, and I think you are amazing yourself to share all that with me, just to make me feel a little bit better.”

I feel his body begin to relax in my embrace.

“Do you want me to go get some kind of take-out?”

He rolls over then, spinning quickly to face me. “Don't leave me, Bella. Please don't leave me.”

As tears roll down his face to the bed, I rain kisses on his eyes, his cheeks, his forehead, his lips. I know now that he has been just as afraid as I am of this not being real.

~ E~

I wake, confused. In one hand, I have a mass of tangled hair. In the other? I appear to have a wad of used tissues. Ah... Baby Swan. It all comes back to me once I feel the glue that's apparently attempting to stick my eyelids together. Shit. I cried in front of her. Next thing you know, I'll just remove my balls, have them bronzed, and let her put them on her desk at work next to that bizarre sparking nun toy and her strange collection of insect paperweights.

When I finally pry my eyelids open, I can see her, the lights left on in the room, and I'm fucking blown away by what I see. My one hand is still in her hair, and I process that she placed her hand over mine, securing it in her hair. Her other hand is under my head, caressing my cheek. By now, it has to be completely numb, but from her position and the worried look I see even on her sleeping face, I know she was trying to comfort me. Safe. She wanted me to feel safe.

Hearing her stomach growl, I laugh. She's also been hungry since she asked about dinner earlier, but was concerned enough to ignore that, in order to stay with me.

I untangle myself from her, gathering up some of her dirty tissues as I go, wondering—not for the first time—how she managed to get through her lunch this afternoon and still have anything left with which to comfort me. A quick glance at her refrigerator reveals her apartment is just as devoid of edible substances as mine is, so I'm left reaching for her pile of take-out menus. I grab one blindly to select which restaurant will be delivering to Bella's apartment today. Luckily, it's the Chinese menu, and I know they deliver until 11PM, giving me plenty of time to order.

After I call, I'm left wondering why I just dumped my family's entire sordid history at her feet like that. She needed to hear it; needed to hear that you can create a family out of anything if that's what you want, but I had absolutely no idea why I told her that much. Would it have been enough to tell her that Rosalie was adopted and my birth mother wasn't in the picture? I'd been afraid she would bolt, wondering how my dysfunctional mini-Brady Bunch ever worked out in the end. Of course,

I'd been stupid. She was Baby Swan. Her best friend was a drag queen and she'd been raised with said queen and a conspiracy theorist. Apparently, that doesn't leave a lot of room for a clear definition of “normal family.”

The buzzer interrupts my introspection, and I pay for our take-out, grabbing two beers out of the fridge and heading back to her bedroom, planning to wake her up with sesame chicken and moo shu vegetables. She's already awake, though, and all the dirty tissues are gone, her wastebasket containing a tied-off grocery bag, and the room immaculate. She's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and I hear Nina Simone wailing in the background.

“Dinner, Rich Kid?” I smile and offer the bag to her. “You okay?”

“I'm okay, Baby Swan. How are you?”

She shrugs. “As well as I can be after being verbally flayed by my alleged best friend.”

I hate that I didn't insist on going to lunch. Hate that Emmett didn't keep his brother from verbally abusing Bella like that. Most of all, I hate that I now want to fix all of her problems myself, which is going to take Jasper's help and hopefully, Alice's involvement as well.

She interrupts my nefarious plotting. “Rich Kid, wanna watch a movie?”

“You want to go rent something?” I ask, lacking proper motivation to leave the apartment.

She heads out of the bedroom and I follow, stopping behind her when we reach her living room.

“Hell no. We're going to watch something I already have. Tonight, you have your choice of Pirates of the Caribbean the Original—as the other two suck—or Corpse Bride or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Johnny Depp is not up for debate, Baby Swan?”

“Nope. So choose your poison: hot sword-fighting pirate, dude who marries a corpse, or creepy candy dude.”

When she puts it that way, there's really only one option. “Pirate, then. But no heavy breathing, Baby Swan.”

She winks, and I curl up with her on the futon for the movie. She knows the dialogue by heart, apparently, complete with drunken swagger. We idly feed each other from the take-out containers, then turn our full attention to the movie, until we fall asleep on the futon.

# # #

In the morning, we drive to work together, as we have every day this week. I walk Baby Swan to her cube, waiting as she pulls what appears to be some type of weapon out of her bag.

“Um, Bella, you can't have that in here...” I trail off as I see her remove a bag of miniature marshmallows immediately after. Ignoring me completely, she tears open the bag and loads the gun... with the marshmallows.  
  
“Baby Swan?”

She glares at me. “Every time one of these nincompoops abuses an apostrophe or begins a sentence with a conjunction, or otherwise does something so completely amateur I wonder how they graduated from kindergarten, I'm firing this. I'm warning you that I have very good aim.”

I close my eyes and wince, hoping like hell I won't have an irate Rosalie in my office by lunch due to HR complaints.

“Lunch today, Bella?”

“Hmm?” she manages, already nose-deep in our online help documents.

“Lunch?”

“Oh, sure,” she replies. “I'll come to your office.”

I head back toward my office, making a detour once I'm out of Bella's line of sight. Luckily, Jasper is here early.

“Alice kick you out this morning?” is the question I greet him with. He holds up what appears to be a Hello Kitty bento box and a Thermos.

“No, Edward. She wants me here early and asked me to work through my lunch today so I can leave early. My wardrobe has been deemed 'pathetic' and in need of retail therapy.”

He's got to be kidding me. He's leaving early so his girlfriend can take him clothes shopping. To achieve that goal, she packed him lunch. In a Hello Kitty lunch pail.

The ammunition he's just given me is gold, but I can't use it; I need his help, and I need to overlook the shopping and the lunch for any chance of obtaining his assistance.

“Jasper, I need a favor.”

~ B~

I've spent the morning getting to know the tools I'm forced to work with, and never has an insult been so appropriate as it is for these idiots. Their biggest problem is that they aren't a team. Each one thinks he or she is a special little snowflake who has the only solution to any problem. Today, I did nothing but go through the docs. Tomorrow... well, tomorrow I'll be wearing the combat boots and placing them up a few asses. First, however, I have lunch with Rich Kid, and I'm wondering if he's amenable to a nooner since last night's little hair-braiding session left us with no time for hot and steamy sexin'.

I stroll into his office only to find it empty. I'm starving and he's not even here to take me to lunch. I debate between working on a story idea I've been tossing around and leaving in search of food. The story wins, but my stomach isn't happy, so I park my laptop on Rich Kid's desk and bang on the keyboard trying to wake it from sleep while I rifle through his drawers for some sustenance. What kind of fucking programmer is he that he has no snacks in his desk? No beef jerky? No caffeinated mints? No PEZ?

I'm slamming my head on another open, food-lacking drawer when I hear someone clearing a throat. Her throat to be exact. Well, fuck me if another run in with Rosalie the Righteous wasn't just what the doctor ordered after Rich Kid's revelations last night. Do I keep swinging for the fences with her, or do I let my pity for the horrible hand her family was dealt keep me trying for tact?

“What are you doing in my brother's desk?”

I'm going to be nice. I'm going to be nice. I'm going to be nice.

“Looking for some food. He was supposed to meet me for lunch and he makes me get up at fucking dawn to get here, and I can't go seven hours without food like he can.”

Shit. So much for being nice. I bitched about her brother, swore, and admitted I was snooping through his desk. Rosalie is striding toward me on her ridiculous heels, and after seeing how she popped Mitt-Mitt, I'm afraid she's about to go all Tonya Harding on me. Instead, she pulls open the bottom drawer as far as it will go, pulls the file folders forward, and shows me how to open the drawer's false bottom, revealing a fucking Blackbeard's chest of snackage.

I look up at her, wondering what prompted this peace offering, and she gives me a tentative sort of smile.

“Bella, I'm very sorry I was so unforgivably rude, both when we met on Sunday and when I spoke with you on Monday. I tend to want to overprotect my family, and Edward pointed out—and rightly so—that it's not my place to question his judgment, either professionally or personally.”

I nod, acknowledging how difficult that apology must have been for her. I have so many questions that I'm absolutely dying to ask her, but I'm not sure how leafy this olive branch she's offering really is. For all I know, it's some kind of poison ivy I'm too stupid to spot.

“Rosalie, I'd never hurt him intentionally. The money and the company... if anything, they just get in the way and fuck with my head. I'd be a lot happier if he was a hobo like me and I didn't have to worry about people questioning my motivations.”

Now it's her turn to nod, letting me know that she understands my dilemma, or so I think, until she starts speaking.

“I know that now, Bella. I've seen you with him. You're actually in love with him.”

All I can think at the moment is that it's a damn good thing we aren't at the zoo, because some kind of bird would be setting up a damn nest in my gaping piehole.

She's insane. Rich Kid's sister is totes batshit and no one knows. I'm going to be the one to call the white coats and devastate his family and leave him without an HR director, and who the fuck knows how hard it will be to find another one who'll subscribe to his crazy work hours.

I'm still looking at her while my brain is processing all this, and she has this fucking beatific all-knowing smile. I think it's the same kind of crazy smile serial killers have just before they off you, so I do a quick scan of Rich Kid's desk, looking for a letter opener or a bowie knife or something I can use to defend myself. All the fucker has is a nerdtastic red stapler, and that's not going to do me a bit of good unless I can grab it and put one in her eye before she offs me.  
  
“I know you think I'm crazy, Bella; I can see it in your eyes. However, I also see the way that you look at him and whether you realize it yet or not, you're in love with my baby brother. I may tease him mercilessly, but I love him with all my heart, and I'm going to both warn you not to hurt him and hope like hell he doesn't hurt you. He's never had a real girlfriend, so I'm assuming he's clueless when it comes to doing the right thing.”

I'm still staring at her, slack-jawed, when she grabs a pad of sticky notes and writes down a phone number. “If you'd like to thank me for showing you the stash, Bella, you can give this number to your friend Emmett. Now that was a hot hunk of man meat, and I'm pretty sure I'd know exactly what to name his cock.”

With that, she turns and leaves Edward's office. He finds me there, in his chair, candy wrappers all around me, still staring and incoherent, with Rosalie's phone number stuck to my laptop's display. He looks at me, all befuddled and concerned, with those cute forehead wrinkles that let me know he's stressed, and I don't know what to say.

What if Rosalie is right?

~ E~

By lunchtime, Jasper and I have managed to get some work done in addition to strategizing, something he excels at. It's why he makes such an excellent CTO; he should have been in the military, he's so regimented and able to see six steps ahead of anyone else. I gave up playing chess with him a long time ago because of it.

Of course, he's not so regimented that he's able to keep me from being late to meet Bella back at my office, and I find her there, sitting at my desk rather than sleeping under it, surrounded by candy wrappers and looking shell-shocked. The candy wrappers mean she's either exceedingly clever or someone sold out my secret stash. I was with Jasper, and only one other person knows about it: Rosalie.

“Baby Swan? Are you okay?”

She appears to focus on me, but she's not quite there, staring at me as if she's never seen me before.

“Baby Swan?”

The second time I say her name, she comes back to me, focusing and realizing the mess she's made of my desk.

“Oh! Shit! Rich Kid... sorry... I got... hungry. You're late!” I know she's all-the-way back when she manages to snap at me at the end of her apology.

“Sorry about that. I was working in Jasper's office on some plans for changes.” I'm hoping she'll let me leave it at that. We were talking about changes. Baby Swan doesn't need to know that not all of those changes have to do with the site.

I'm about to lead her out of the office when her phone rings. I recognize the ringtone: The Pixies' “Is She Weird?” which I know is set for Alice. Baby Swan finds it amusing that everyone stereotypes Alice as some type of fairy-like creature when in reality she's pretty strange and quite imposing when she wants to be.

My fingers cross as I listen to Bella's side of the conversation; if Jasper has done his job, this is phase one of my plan. Alice should be asking Baby Swan for a girls' night on Saturday, leaving me free. I hear her chattering and glancing at me occasionally before she finally pauses.

“Edward? Alice wants to do a girls' night thing on Saturday, but I don't want...”

I wave her off before she can finish. “I'm sure she's already planned this with Jasper. They can't be separated for that long without some pre-planning. My bet is that she's commandeering your company while sending Jasper off with me for 'guy time.'”

She returns to her phone call, and I manage to resist the temptation to wipe my brow. She's tough. I hate keeping this from her, but it's necessary. She'd never let me do this otherwise, and it needs to be done.

When she finally hangs up, she's wearing a sly grin. “Rich Kid, how do you feel about a nooner?” Too bad for Baby Swan—and me, to be honest— I already have plans for our lunch.

“Sorry, Baby Swan, not today. We are going grocery shopping so we can stock at least your apartment with food. No more takeout. We need to act like the grown-ups we are supposed to be. Maybe if you eat healthier, you won't need that nap in the afternoon and can actually start doing some real writing.”

She begins muttering under her breath, but I can hear her.

“Maybe if I wasn't getting up at five in the fucking morning I wouldn't need a nap, too.”

She's adorable when she's riled, but we really do need to start settling in and ending the constant stream of take-out and tequila. We'll stock her apartment, but I'm hoping I can lure her to my own on a more regular basis.

We're at the grocery store before I know it, pushing one of those gigantic carts. Baby Swan is tossing in box after box of sugary cereal and Pop-Tarts, while I remove about half of it and replace with whole-grain options. In the produce section, she flits between areas, choosing far more fruit than vegetables, making me be the grown-up in the food-planning business.

By the time we reach the beer, Baby Swan is holding up Guinness and Smithwicks, cocking an eyebrow to ask me which one I prefer when it hits me, and my knees buckle. I grab the handle of the shopping cart to steady myself, as I realize that we are shopping together for food for an apartment we are both living in, and I'm plotting ways to lure her to my apartment. Aside from work, I haven't been apart from her since the day we met. I'm all but living with her. We are choosing beer together, for fuck's sake. I'd told her all about the circus carnival that resulted in my family.

What the hell am I doing?


	16. There's an Ambulance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an ambulance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aspenleaf? Chica, you are getting the Garden Club meeting you never expected.

I have absolutely no idea what the ever-loving fuck just happened. None. Zip. Zilch.

One second, I'm holding up two six-packs of beer, asking Rich Kid which one he prefers. The next second, his eyes roll up into his head and he sort of folds up before hitting the floor. At first, I'm wondering if his whole “sister as Wicked Witch” analogy wasn't misplaced, and beer is actually his personal pail of water. Before I know it, people are all around him, someone is calling 911, and I'm starting to freak out a little bit.

The crowd of people is so huge around him that I can't get to him, and then he's just gone. I'm standing in the grocery store, alone, realizing the keys to his car are in his pocket, the cart full of groceries has been abandoned, and I have no fucking idea where he might be. I can't call his parents because I don't have their number.

I can't even call Jasper because I don't know the number to the damn switchboard at work. Calling Mitt-Mitt won't help, and the last thing I want to do is fuck up my tenuous truce with Rosalie, even though her number is still stuck to my laptop in my bag. No, there's only one person I can call, and even though she's going to go into full tilt, at least she can get me in touch with Jasper, who might actually be able to figure out where to find Edward.

I wish I could crack open one of the beers to get through this call. She answers in her usual clipped manner, stating only her name. I'm sure if she had a rank and serial number, she'd add that.

“Alice, it's Bella. Look, I need Jasper's cell phone number.” Of course, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition. Except me, when calling Alice.

“Alice, please. I don't have time for this. They just took Edward out of the grocery store in an ambulance and I need to figure out where they took him. And, you know, get there and shit.”

Her squawking sounds a lot like Charlie Brown's teacher, and I'm paying about as much attention until I suddenly notice she's hung up. She has fucking hung up.

Now I'm stranded at the grocery store. I need new friends.  
  
I abandon the cart and head outside. It's cool, but at least it's sunny and I feel like I need air. Once outside, I spot a half-wall surrounding the store's landscaping and sit down, letting myself finally process what happened. I don't even know if Edward is okay. I have no idea what happened. It's at this point that I start hysterically sobbing, which is how Jasper finds me. Sitting outside a grocery store crying my fucking eyes out like a toddler separated from her mother.

“Bella? What happened? Alice called and told me to get over here as fast as I could, but didn't give me any details.”

I'm completely incomprehensible as I choke out, “Beer... eyes... falling... twitching... ambulance...”

Somehow, Jasper manages to put something together out of that and is on his cell phone in no time, dragging me along with him to his car. The man even has a handkerchief for me to blow my nose. A handkerchief! It's like I've walked into a 1950s timewarp. He opens my door for me, assists me with entering, as if he knows I will fall on my ass like a spaz, and then hops in and speeds off, still jabbering on the phone all the while.

“Jasper?” I try to interrupt. Zero response. “Jasper ? ” Still nothing. “Big'un ? ”

Ah, that gets his attention. He may think that Alice hasn't told me about sex with him yet, but he'd be very, very wrong. He ends his call with an “I'll see you there” and turns to me, cocking one eyebrow.

“Sorry,” I offer in a small voice.

“I was on the phone with Carlisle, Bella. They took Edward to the ER where Carlisle's on staff and he's meeting us there. What happened?”

I'm slightly more coherent this time around, and I describe a scene that makes no sense. Showing Edward the beer. Watching him fall. People swooping in. Jasper's forehead wrinkles in confusion, but he has no answers either.

It seems like forever before we get to the hospital and we walk into the ER to find Carlisle waiting, gesturing for us to follow him. My stomach is jumping around like

I'm either going to throw up or give birth to an alien baby. My money is on puking. Jasper puts his arm around my shoulder and it takes me some serious effort not to shake it off and pull a runner. I hate hospitals. Fucking hate them. Just the smell is enough to make me scream in terror.

We stop outside a curtained-off cubicle and Carlisle turns back to us. He appears to be... smirking?

“Edward is going to be held for a few hours for observation. He's... er... a bit banged up. I assume he hit his head on the shopping cart as he fainted?”

He doesn't wait for an answer, but pulls the curtain back so I can see Rich Kid, who looks pretty fucking damaged. Dude went a round with a shopping cart and totes lost that one. He's so pathetic and sweet, laying there in a hospital gown, one knee bent under the blanket they've given him, and his forearm covering his eyes.

I turn to Carlisle.

“He's okay, though?”

“It looks that way. His face is bruised, as you can see, and they'll probably send him down for a CT scan before they release him just to make sure he didn't, er, sustain any brain damage in the fall, but I imagine he'll be out of here in a couple of hours. I'll go see what they may have ordered for him.”

He gestures his head to Jasper and both of them leave the cubicle, leaving me alone with Rich Kid. This, in turn, leads to me repeatedly swallowing the vomit that is slowly trying to creep up my esophagus. What if something happens? What if he faints again or falls off the bed or throws up or dies? What am I supposed to do?

Then I remember. This is Rich Kid. He sat with me in a pile of dirty tissues while I puked. He let me snot all over him. So I sit on the edge of the bed, hearing the gross plastic mattress under the scratchy sheet crinkle. I reach my hand up and run it through his hair, combing it back off his forehead, letting him know that I'm here.

~ E~

I come to in the ambulance, confused. Where is Baby Swan? I don' realize I'm screaming it until one of the ambulance crew (are they EMTs? paramedics?) pushes me back down and tells me to calm the fuck down. Yes, she actually said fuck, so I must have been yelling loudly.

“Sir, there's no bird.” “I'm not looking for a fucking bird. I'm looking for Baby Swan.”

She doesn't respond well to my belligerence. “Sir, I told you there is no bird. Now can you tell me your name?”

My name. She wants my name.

“I'm Edward Cullen the Not-Quite Second.”

She snorts, confusing me until I realize I'd appended Baby Swan's title at the end.

“Sir, do you know what day it is?”

Day... day... what is the day?

“Let me see... Sunday was the drag pageant... Monday we had sex after Ethiopian... Tuesday was the wake- up blow job and the lunch mess... that makes today... Wednesday?”

She's staring at me. Does that mean it isn't Wednesday?  
  
“Sir, is Baby Swan your boyfriend? Er, significant other?”

What? My boyfriend? What the fuck? I run over what I just said, and the light bulb goes off that I way over-shared.

“Oh god. No. Sorry. Bella. Bella Swan. She's my...”

What is Bella? I have no idea what to call her. Girlfriend sounds so trivial. So juvenile. Best friend? Most fun I've ever had in my life? Person I want to take care of? Person I'm in...

“Your girlfriend, sir? Was she at the store with you? Does she have your medical history? Is she following the ambulance?”

Shit. She's at the store. Alone. With no way home. I struggle to check my pockets and the woman pushes me down again, causing me to scream again.

“She's at the store. Alone! She has no way to get home because I have the fucking car keys! Why didn't anyone bring her?”

While I've been yelling, a light bulb must have gone off in her head as well because she asks, “Cullen? Carlisle Cullen's kid? The surgeon?”

Now I get it. I'm in an ambulance. I fell at the store. Baby Swan held up the beer and I realized... I realized...

I'm on my way to the hospital where my father works. Baby Swan is alone at the grocery store. I have a raging headache. None of this is good news.

I put my arm over my eyes as they pull the stretcher I'm on out of the ambulance and into the ER, partially to block the bright light from my eyes, and partially to hide my face. I'm sure that someone has already alerted my father that I'm here, and I'm mortified. How do I explain that I passed out when Baby Swan asked me to pick a goddamned six-pack?

Sure enough, the first person in my little curtain cube is my father, looking about one-third concerned and the rest amused.

“Are you okay, Edward? I understand you fainted in a grocery store.”

I roll my eyes behind my arm.

“Look, Dad. I'm fine. I passed out. I probably should have eaten breakfast or something. I told them I was fine and they made me come here—in an ambulance—anyway. Can you help me get out of here and find Bella?”

“Bella's with you? Where is she?” he asked, looking around the ER.

“That's the fucking problem, Dad. I have no idea. I think she's still at the store! Fucking no one would help me find her!”  
  
His phone rings, and he holds up a finger as he answers it.

“Hello, Jasper... Yes, he's here. Do you have any idea where Bella is?” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “Oh, good. Okay, I'll see you in a few minutes then.”

I take my arm off my eyes and look at him for the first time. “Why didn't you ask him to go get her? Jesus, Dad!”

He's smirking at me as he answers, “He already picked her up, Edward. She had the sense to call Alice, and Alice called Jasper. They are on their way here.”

Fuck. That wasn't what I wanted. I was hoping someone would take her home, not bring her here. I'm not ready to face her. What do I say? Gee, Bella, I'm sorry I passed out because I couldn't choose a beer because I suddenly realized that we are fucking grocery shopping together and I think I know what that means and it scares the shit out of me?

I return my arm to the safe, block-the-world-out position over my eyes before I feel my father sit on the edge of my bed.

“Edward?”

I'm going to ignore him. I'm not going to talk to him about Baby Swan. Not here, and definitely not now.

“Edward, you don't have to talk. Just listen to me. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. Some had positive results, and a lot didn't. I nearly lost your mother because

I was a fool, so caught up in myself and my fears and insecurities that I forgot what was most important. I will never regret having you, but I will never be able to make up for how much I hurt her. Don't make my mistakes. Don't let fear cause you to lose her.”

He's onto me, and I think he knows what happened at the grocery store. I think he'll say more, but then I feel him leave the bed, and I assume that he's left until the curtain opens again, and I hear his voice, murmuring. I feel him sit down again, but this time, it feels tentative, as if he isn't sure he'll be welcomed. At least, I think it's him until I feel fingers running through my hair gently, and I know it's Baby Swan.

“Rich Kid?” I'm afraid of what's going to come out of my mouth if I answer her, so I just... don't.

“Rich Kid, I'm starting to think you passed out in the store just to get away from me. It's okay if you did. I mean, I get it. I think.

“This whole fucking thing is scary isn't it? I don't mean like Single White Female scary although I guess maybe it could be if I'd moved into your apartment, and that's why I don't. Move into—or want to spend time in—your apartment. I didn't want you to think I was clingy or stalker-y or whatever. So I figured if you kept coming over to my place that meant you really wanted to be with me.

“Then this morning I figure out that I haven't gone a day without seeing you since I met you. We're together fucking constantly and then I'm in your office and your sister was nice to me and she starts talking to me like the fucking Oracle or some shit and I really want to take the red pill, Rich Kid. Seriously, I do. But I'm so fucking scared.” I can't breathe. I know what she's saying and I can't. fucking. breathe.

My mouth opens and closes like a dying man gasping for his last breath. Maybe that's exactly what I'm doing. The third time it opens, words come flying out and I can't do a single thing to stop them.

“I'm in love with you, Baby Fucking Swan. I passed out because I realized I'm in love with you. So take the goddamned red pill already, because I'm dying over here.”

~ B~

Oh. Mah. God.

When I spoke to Rosalie this morning, I was caught up in my own feeling of inadequacy. I knew something was happening with Rich Kid. Christ on Crispix, I knew what was happening when he first stuck that fin in Victoria's cleave. Rosalie wasn't so much a messenger as a reminder service, the proverbial poke in the ass to point out something I already knew.

The thing is... she never once mentioned what she thought her brother might feel. You'd think, spending most of your life with the guy, you'd see the signs, but maybe she thought he needed to figure out it out on his own. Maybe she thought it would mean more to me if the first time I heard it was from him, not the result of a mental Tarot card reading by his ice queen sister (who apparently isn't such an ice queen after all).

The past week and a half has been the craziest bullshit ever. I can't write this as a fic. I can't write this as anything, because it's beyond ridiculous and into fucking fairy tale. I met this guy on a whim. I would never in a million years have spoken to him if I hadn't been in such a mood at the gallery. Yet here we are, him in a hospital bed in an emergency room after passing out because he figured out that he loved me. Me. Bella Swan. Chronic fuck-up and failure. I'd probably pass out too if I came to the conclusion that I was in love with me, so I can't blame him one bit.

“Baby Swan?” He's quiet. Shy, even. I know he's waiting for me to speak, and, of course, because I am socially retarded, there's only one way to answer him.

“Rich Kid, shush for a second here. I need to complete my internal monologue.”

Seriously, does he not know I need to figure this out? I need to say this right. When I answer him, it has to be the right thing, and oh fuck, I already blew it, didn't I? I look at his eyes and see the hurt.

“Edward, fuck, please... I didn't mean it. It's only... I wanted this to be perfect, you know? I'm still trying to wrap my head around why you'd want to spend time with the next-most-morose girl ever after, say, Lydia, and I only miss that boat because I don't have two crazy ghosts in my attic. You pass out. Your face is a mess. I was panicking that you were dead or something. Then I get here, and you tell me you are in love with me, and that scrambles my brain even more, you know?”

I'm not sure if it's a good sign or a bad sign that he's laughing, but he holds out his arms like a toddler asking to be picked up. How am I supposed to resist that cuteness? I'm not, but I do, moving forward like I'm going to snuggle with him on the nasty hospital bed, but then stopping. I want to look in his eyes when I do this.

“Edward Anthony Cullen the Not-Quite-Second, I'm pretty much in fucking love with you, too. I hope that  
means we can get the Guinness and the Smithwicks.” With that, I curl up next to him and promptly fall asleep.

# # #

I'm woken up by a nurse with a nasty disposition. She seriously has more than a stick up her ass; we are talking fucking caber here. She's bitching up a storm about patients and how a hospital isn't a rent-by-the- hour motel and if Rich Kid isn't really sick he shouldn't be taking up her valuable time, and well, I'm a bit ornery when people wake my ass up.

“Look here, Nurse Ratched. I wouldn't be casting stones at any hourly rate motel judging by the nastiness of these sheets. I'm here comforting my fucking brother, who had a traumatic kind of a day. Then you show up making all kinds of accusations and I'm a bit upset. I'm thinking I should call my father in here.”

She's looking properly chastised as she stutters her way through an apology for making assumptions. Rich Kid is trying not to laugh as she mumbles something about taking him for a CT scan, and as she starts dragging his bed away, I lean over and give him a kiss that may have involved a little bit of church tongue. Nurse Ratched gasps and I giggle into his mouth.

“Tell her that our family believes in showing our affection. A lot.”

Just like that, he's gone, and I hug myself. I'm in fucking love. Now it's time to find Jasper and hopefully, shake him down for some change so I can hit the vending machine. It sucks righteous ass that I got neither a nooner nor actual food for lunch today.

~E~

I'm fucking basking in the glow of Baby Swan's revelation all the way down to the stupid test that is doing nothing but wasting precious medical resources, all in the name of the damn store trying to prevent a lawsuit. I don't have a concussion, and I'm pretty sure I don't have brain damage, unless falling in love kills brain cells, in which case, I'll be on life support before you know it.

The time seems to drag while I'm waiting for the test to be administered, because all I want to do is get back to the ER, get the hell out of here, and go snuggle with Baby Swan on her uncomfortable futon while we eat horribly unhealthy food and make out. When they are finally done, I want to bolt off the bed and push it back upstairs myself so I can get back to Bella faster. I finally arrive back in my curtained cubby to find not Bella, but my mother. This is obviously not my day.

“Edward? Your father called and said you fainted. Are you alright? Have you been eating properly?”

I'm guessing she wouldn't view my recent diet of take-out food as her definition of “eating properly” so all I do is shrug.

“At any rate, your father indicated you'd be released soon and would need a ride.”  
  
A feeling of toddler recalcitrance kicks in. I don't want my mother to drive me anywhere. I want to leave with Baby Swan. I'm assuming Jasper will bring her home.

That is, unless they've already left.

Esme never does miss a trick, and spots me trying to peer around her, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bella waiting.

“Bella went to the vending machines. She tells me you fed her neither breakfast nor lunch today, Edward, which is why I already had the answer to how you've been eating.”

Jesus Karen Carpenter Christ, is she seriously going to give me a nutrition lecture? An orderly comes in with my bag of clothes, and I start pulling them on, oblivious to my mother's glare.

“Edward? You haven't said a word to me.” “Look, Mom, all I want to do is find Bella, get the hell out of here, and get some dinner.”

“I'm bringing you both to the house. Laurent is preparing dinner for you so that you'll eat something halfway decent instead of some greasy pizza you pick up on your way to god-only-knows-where.”

She's flushed by the end of her dictate, and I'm sure she's expecting an argument I'm not about to give her. Baby Swan has probably eaten half the chocolate in the vending machine by now, but the girl can probably use some more of Laurent's cooking instead of the crap we've been eating.

“Sounds great, Mom. Thank you.”

It's a good thing we're in a hospital, or I'm fairly certain my mother would have dropped her drink. This being a hospital, she doesn't have one in her hand, and it looks strange to me. Bella returns, all evidence of her vending machine buffet disposed of except for a tiny smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. We set off for the parking lot, and I groan when I see that my mother has used the car service to come fetch me, never a good sign. That means she's been drinking, and when she's been drinking, all bets are off, as she definitely showed by trying to get my dad off at The Royal under the table.

Esme always makes men climb into the car first, insisting that it's poor manners to make a woman in a skirt slide across, but I stop for a moment to lick off the chocolate. My mother clears her throat, and I roll my eyes at her before climbing into the car. Bella follows, leaving her next to my mother. I secretly cross my fingers that my mother will behave, but we aren't even off the hospital campus before she does the unthinkable.

“Bella, my Garden Club meeting is this Saturday. Would you like to attend with me?”

Fuck. My. Life.


	17. There's TNC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's TNC. That's Tuna Noodle Casserole.

I am sitting in a goddamned limo with Edward Cullen the Not-Quite-Second and his mother, who is totes housed when she invites me to her Garden Club meeting. I'm not even sure if she's serious about her invitation, but I'm afraid to say no to her. Of course, this means that when my mouth opens, word vomit ensues, and I say “I'd love to, Esme.”

She responds with a sloppy smile. Edward responds with a groan. Shit. Is it too much to hope she won't remember in the morning? Or ten minutes from now?

We pull up to the house and Rich Kid skitters around his mother to help her from the limo, apparently deciding her balance is too precarious to allow lackeys to do it. Laurent is already opening the door and I can tell by the look in his eye he has something planned that's probably going to annoy some of us and crack the rest of us up, but he greets us all solemnly. Big Daddy Carlisle was apparently done with his shift at about the same time we left the ER, and comes in not five minutes after we do, making me wonder why he didn't bring us home himself.

Edward, the fucking mind-reader, leans over and says, “He drove his Miata. Not enough room.”

He goes to shower off the hospital stink, and I'm left downstairs with Ma and Pa Cullen nattering on about their days. Carlisle's day consisted of slicing and dicing people while Esme's apparently involved, well, drinking. I have no idea what might have gotten into her, or if this is a daily occurrence, but Edward returns and does the psychic shit again: “Lunch with Grandma Platt. And trust me, you want to drink through that.”

Now he's just scaring me. He is handing me a huge ass glass of white wine—probably so I can start catching up with Esme—when Laurent calls us to the dining room for dinner. After the whole sporks episode with Esme, god only knows what he has planned for my second meal at the Cullen Manse. It takes me exactly five minutes to find out.

The places are set with—no fucking lie—one single set of silverware, like I would do at home. One fork. One spoon. One knife. It's clear, however, that the knife is totes unnecessary, since dinner is already on the table. With a sweeping gesture, Laurent removes the lid from—Jesus Charlie the Tuna Christ—a casserole dish, and

Esme screams like there's a 10-foot boa constrictor inside.

“Laurent, what... is...that?” I crane my neck to see what has shocked the crap out of Mrs. Edward Cullen the Not-Quite-First and start giggling. Laurent has made an actual casserole. For dinner. I'm pretty sure these folks have never in their lives seen a casserole, much less eaten one, so I sit down without waiting for Rich Kid to hold my chair, grab the serving spoon Laurent has left for us, and serve myself.

Carlisle is helping Esme into her seat—probably hoping she doesn't pass out—as I'm putting the spoon through the potato chip layer. I toss a heaping spoonful onto my plate and dig in, with the three Cullens staring at me like I've just tucked into a meal consisting of live kittens. Laurent is really trying his damnedest to not laugh, but I can tell he's busting a gut by the shaking.

“Baby Swan? What the hell is that you're eating?” The revulsion in Edward's voice is seriously hilarious, but I keep right on forking it in, addressing my response to Laurent.

“Laurent? Dude, this is the most fuckawesome TNC I've ever had. You rock!”

Rich Kid takes his seat next to me, and tentatively serves himself a small spoonful. He sniffs the minute amount he allows onto his fork before putting it in his mouth for a taste, then surprises me by going for another. Carlisle and Esme follow his lead.

“Baby Swan, what is this dish I'm eating?”

“It's tuna noodle casserole, Edward. Some noodles, some canned tuna, a can of cream of mushroom soup...”

I haven't even made it to the peas when Esme, with her second bite already en route to her piehole, makes like Rich Kid and passes right the fuck out. I'm pretty sure that, up until now, she's never knowingly eaten anything that came out of a can. That shock, combined with her excessive alcohol consumption, was too much for her. Sort of like her son's realization that he was in love with a walking train wreck. Big Daddy C immediately drops his second fork of casserole to help her, but

Edward continues to tuck right in, and Laurent makes some kind of noise about smelling salts while I explain the gourmet layer of potato chips that Laurent added for the true white trash effect.

Goddamn, I love this family. The only way this dinner could possibly get better is if Laurent brings out lime Jello with Cool Whip for dessert.

After Esme regains consciousness and we finish dinner, Carlisle offers us one of their cars to get home, but Edward elects to have us stay the night at the manse. I'm still a bit angry about the no-nooner lunch, which makes the thought of not getting any because Mommy and Daddy Rockefeller are just down the hall piss me off even more. Rich Kid assures me that after the trauma of the casserole dinner, Esme will pop a couple of Xanax and pass out. Even without pharmaceutical assistance, Edward claims they wouldn't hear us anyway, as his old room is on the third floor at the opposite end of the hall as his parents' room. I joke about his room being Mrs. Rochester's room, but he's suddenly getting all serious and I start to panic.

He leads me into his room and tosses me a pair of sweats and a Reverend Horton Heat t-shirt so old that the design is cracking and peeling. I'm about to change where I stand when he points me to the attached bathroom. I look at him all confused. Something isn't right here. He's already seen me naked. Why do I need to change in a bathroom? Didn't we just have this huge romantical mutual-professions-of-love scene in the hospital? Aren't fucking cartoon birds supposed to be singing little songs as they circle around our blissed- out heads right now? Where is my fucking Disney Princess moment?  
  
I pull on the sweats and t-shirt and then curl up on the plush bathroom rug, after checking to make sure I've locked the door behind me. I'm tired of the angsty shit with Edward. I'm tired of crying and tequila and passing out in grocery stores. I want to get on with the business of being happy. Aren't people in love supposed to be goddamned happy? When the hell is that supposed to start, exactly? The bathroom is warm, but I'm crying, so I yank one of the huge bath sheets off the towel bar to wipe my snotty face off, and that's the last thing I remember before I fall asleep right there on his plush fucking bath mat.

~ E~

I yank on an old pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, then sit on my old bed waiting for Bella to come out of the bathroom. I'm not sure today could have been more fucked up if we'd tried to make it that way, but I'm determined to set it right. When she started getting undressed I wanted to die on the spot; the thought of christening every surface of my childhood room with her had me hard as a damn rock. If I wanted to fix things though, I needed to talk to her first. If I'd seen even one additional inch of skin, I'd have taken her up against the door, and there would be no talking at all. That's not how I want it to be for us the first time after we admitted our feelings for each other. I want to give her flowers and candles. The least I'm going to give her is talking and slow loving, rather than fucking her against my bedroom door.

So here I am, sitting on my bed that I've beaten the bishop in countless times before, knowing that on the other side of the door, Baby Swan is in some stage of undress. I'm trying to picture absolutely anything that will get my wood to subside, but even Grandma Platt in her foundation undergarments isn't working. Every minute Bella is in there feels like an hour, and if she doesn't hurry, I'm going to end up forgetting my goal and ravishing her instead of showing her how much I love her.

When I glance over at my clock to see if it's been longer than five minutes, I realize it actually has been an hour and Baby Swan still hasn't come out of the bathroom. Sweet Crispy Christ, I've been so busy trying to picture my grandmother in her underwear to get rid of my hard-on that something has happened to Bella and I had no idea. I race over to the bathroom, but she's locked the door and I can't get in. I'm banging on the door trying to get her to unlock it, but there's no response other than gasping. Completely out of my mind with panic, I throw all my weight against the door (mentally noting that Carlisle and Esme really should invest in sturdier doors) and it splinters. I push my way in to find Baby Swan asleep, again, on the floor in my old bathroom. I wonder for a moment if she has narcolepsy since she seems capable of falling asleep absolutely anywhere. Her cheeks are wet and blotchy, and realize that the gasping sound was because her breath is still hitching, letting me know she's cried herself to sleep over something instead of coming out and talking to me.

Fucking A, are we a matched set of stupid or aren't we?

I lift her gently from the floor, still covered in the bath sheet, and carry her to my bed. Tomorrow morning is soon enough to figure this shit out. Right now I'm tired, and fearing her hurt or worse has worked much better than a picture of Grandma Platt's girdle in eliminating any desire I have to fuck Baby Swan until she faints. I turn off the lights and curl around her, hoping we can start over tomorrow and do it right this time. Maybe even have a semi-normal romantic date. I fall asleep wondering how Baby Swan feels about flowers and gourmet chocolate instead of Snickers.

# # #

I'm dreaming. I wake up and I'm in my room back home, and there's a girl with me. I'm trying to figure out how on earth my parents let me have a girl sleep over, but I'm not questioning it since I feel her mouth on my bare chest. I'm left trying to figure out who the girl is... her hair isn't super-curly, so it can't be Jessica... but it's not quite straight, so it's not Lauren...

“Rich Kid?”

I bolt upright in bed. This isn't a dream, I'm not still in high school, and this is Bella in my bed.

“Bella?”

Her eyes are wide as she stares at me.

“Who the fuck else would I be, Edward?”

I laugh nervously. “I'm sorry, Baby Swan. It was very... disconcerting waking up in my old bedroom with your mouth on me. I thought I was back in high school.”

She is fucking slithering up my body and I can feel that she's naked. My brain is obviously not firing on all cylinders yet, but parts of me are, and apparently, blood is needed more by those areas than my brain.

“Bella?”

“Did you have many girls up to your bedroom in high school, Edward?” she purrs. She fucking purrs her question.

“Uh... um... n-no?”

Why the hell am stuttering? Oh yeah, maybe because she's rubbing herself all over me?

“So is it fair to say you only had a few girls up to your bedroom in high school, Edward?”

She's keeping me from having any sort of a train of thought. Any train is now positively derailed.

“I... d-didn't have any girls up here.”

Her mouth is on my neck and sweet mother of pearl the way she's writhing on my cock... just another inch and I'll be buried inside her... and she's asking me if I've had sex in my parents' house?

“I don't believe you, Rich Kid. I think you might be lying to me. I know you were a... what's the word all the teenagers are using these days? Player?”

I'm arching my back trying to get her to move, but she's not budging. My head is right.... fucking... there and did she seriously just call me a player? Did she really use that word? She must be kidding.

“Ah... Baby Swan, please. The true player never brings a girl home. He fucks her in his car or at school. Y ou....”

Finally, she's taking me inside her.  
  
“Are...”

Oh god, this is better than any fantasy I ever had. She curls her feet under her thighs to balance and begins touching herself, one hand on her breast and two fingers of the other hand stroking where we are joined. She's touching me as I enter her along with her clit and, so help me, I want to come right the fuck now.

“Unh... the first...”

All it takes is watching her tongue come out to lick her lips and I'm completely fucking gone, grabbing her hips and thrusting into her, pulling her forward so I can touch her and watch her face as she comes after me.

With that, she falls on my chest, and I'm finally able to kiss her.

“Good morning, my sweet,” I greet her as my lips meet hers gently. “You are better than any alarm clock I've ever owned.”

She smiles, her eyelids drooping as she fights off sleep. “I loved that, Edward. I love knowing I'm the first girl you've had sex with in here.”

It's probably a good thing it's a work day, or I'd wait my parents out and christen every room of their house with Baby Swan. As it is, I need to figure out what happened last night.

“Bella? What happened last night?”

She jolts when she hears my question, and begins moving to get out of bed and get dressed before I grab her arm.

“Baby Swan, it's me. What happened?” She hangs her head, refusing to look at me. “You didn't want me.” “I didn't... what?” “You didn't want to have sex with me,” she qualifies. “You gave me sweats. You sent me to the bathroom.” Laughing is probably not the best reaction to have, but I can't help it.

“Bella, I passed out in the grocery store. I told you I loved you in a hospital emergency room! I wanted you so much last night it was all I could do to not take you on the dining room table next to Laurent's tuna noodle casserole. All I wanted was to calm down enough to take things slowly. Seriously. I hoped I could show you how much I love you.”

She is wearing what can only be described as a shit-eating grin when she looks at me. “Sort of like I showed you this morning?”  
  
I smack my forehead with the palm of my hand. I'm an idiot. Of course she did. Any way I make love to her, from sweetly in bed to frantically up against a door is showing her. Once again, it helps to talk and not assume things.

I slide out of bed, grabbing her hand and dragging her along with me to the bathroom. “C'mon, Bella. I've never had a girl in my shower with me, either.”

~ B~

If I'd thought breakfast with Rich Kid's parents would be awkward after essentially fucking their son senseless this morning in his bed and in his shower, I was wrong. Laurent has laid out some fuckawesome spread involving freshly squeezed orange juice and Belgian waffles and a boatload of fruit I've never seen before.

Laurent is buttling? butlering? away when I reach the table, winking at me as Rich Kid pulls out my chair. I notice that my place setting has a single set of silverware while everyone else has the requisite eleventy forks, spoons, and knives. He also brings me a ginormous mug for my coffee, unlike the tiny bone china cups everyone else is using. Rich Kid scowls at him, and I hear Laurent's chuckle letting me know that I'm receiving preferential treatment. Edward is jealous.

Conversation seems non-existent at the table, with Big Daddy C reading some sort of medical something- or-other, Rich Kid scowling at Laurent, and Esme sipping coffee and rubbing her forehead, indicating what must be a monster hangover. Quiet is not my natural state of being, however. Therefore, I'm fidgeting: drumming my fingers on the table, clinking my fork on my plate, and, basically, doing anything to further enrage Edward and aggravate his mother's hangover headache. I've managed to suck down most of my coffee and eat two bites of unidentified yellowish fruit when Edward flies around the table, grabs my hand, and begins pulling me to the door.

“Mother, Father, thank you for dinner, and uh... breakfast, and, um... yesterday... I need to get Bella home to change for work.”

Carlisle, engrossed in his medical whatever, tips his coffee cup at us, but Esme turns to face us. “Bella, I'll pick you up Saturday for the Garden Club meeting. Shall I find you at your apartment or Edward's?”

She's so matter-of-fact about the fact that I'm boffing her son that I fail to process that she wasn't so soused that she forgot her invite. I'm now roped into an entire Saturday of Things I Do Not Wish To Do.

Edward offers a curt, “my apartment” as we flee to a limo already waiting for us. Unlike when he's with his mother, Rich Kid bows to convention and lets me climb in first before following me, settling in as the driver returns to his seat and heads out of the driveway.

I glance over at Edward and he looks... stressed. I'm not sure if it had to do with his parents, me being at his parents' house, or just life in general, but it's sort of difficult to talk about things when you have a fucking chauffeur listening to your every word. I turn to look at the driver and the open partition, then at Edward, then back to the driver, and Rich Kid finally gets it, asking the driver to “allow us some privacy.”

The partition raises until we are blocked off in our own little cocoon, but Edward doesn't relax one iota.  
  
“Edward, is it me?” I ask.

He closes his eyes tightly and does that increasingly annoying pinching the bridge of his nose business that I know means “I'm not sure how to answer you, Baby Swan.”

“No, Bella, not exactly. I'm sorry that my mother conned you into going to her Garden Club crap. I'm sorry that I told you I loved you in an emergency room. Most of all, I'm sorry that I made you feel sad last night and then managed nothing but a round-the-room sexathon with you this morning. This isn't at all how I intended things to go with us.”

I bite my lip as I think of how to answer him.

“Edward, shit, we met like two fucking weeks ago. None of this was exactly planned out, you know. I had fun. Your parents are a riot, Laurent is funnier than shit, even when he doesn't utter a single word, and I really don't mind going to the Garden Shindig with your mother. The only thing I'm worried about is that I'll embarrass her.”

I scoot over and kiss his jaw, wrapping my arms around his middle, hoping that my presence will offer some reassurance.

“Hey Edward?”

“Yes, Baby Swan?”

“Have you ever gotten head in a limo?”

He's gaping at me yet again as he shakes his head from side to side. I have his zipper down and him in my mouth before he can utter a word.

~ E~

By the time we make it back to the grocery store parking lot to retrieve my car, then Baby Swan's apartment for some clothes for her, then mine for clothes for me, it's already nine, later than I think I've ever come into the office. Bella rushes off to her cube while I head to my office where Jasper is waiting expectantly.

“Good morning, Edward. Was nuclear war declared and I wasn't aware?” he cracks. I roll my eyes at him as I sit and begin sifting through my email.

“You know, Edward,” he says, “it isn't a terrible thing to come into work late in order to get some wake-up sex. What concerns me, however, are the number of times you don't seem to make it back into the office after lunch.”

That earns him a glare. I really want to mention the Hello Kitty lunch box again, but I don't dare. I need to get through two more days of playing nice with Jasper to make sure he doesn't bail on me Saturday.

“Seriously, Edward, what the fuck happened yesterday? I've known you what? As long as I can remember. I don't think you've ever 'fainted from hunger' in all that time. What gives?”  
  
I debate coming up with some witty banter about too much sex, but this is Jasper I'm talking to, the closest thing to a brother I have.

“I told her I loved her,” I blurt out. He cocks an eyebrow. “Was this before or after you passed out?”

“After,” I sigh. “I figured it out when we were grocery shopping together. That's when I passed out. I told her when we were in the ER.”

“Wow, Edward, you really do know how to woo a girl, don't you? You seriously told her you loved her while you were laying in a hospital bed wearing a gown that showed your ass?”

When he puts it that way, it does sound awful.

“Shit, Jasper, I know. I know. I want to take her on a real date and fix things. I need to get through Saturday first. Which reminds me... Esme invited Bella to Garden Club.”

He chuckles, “She absolutely did not.”

“She absolutely did too. I'm not sure if I should be more afraid for Baby Swan or for the damn Garden Club. My mother and her crazy friends with this one-upmanship crap is getting completely out of control.”

“What do you think she wants Bella for?” Jasper asked.

“Oh, I think it's pretty obvious. Bella will be her corroborating evidence when it comes to details of the drag pageant. The Groping of Rosalie is a story my mother will dine on for weeks, if not months.”

“Are you still sure you want to do this on Saturday, Edward? You don't have to do it.”

“Yes, Jasper, I do. I can't stand to see her hurt all over again. I think she might be starting to gain a tiny bit of confidence; I swear I saw her writing the other night and it wasn't that fanfic stuff she goes on about.”

“Sure, Edward, but do you really think she'll be okay with you going behind her back like this?”

“I think this is one of those cases where the ends justify the means. Now, do we have actual work to do, or do you want to continue playing Dr. Phil and giving me relationship advice?”

He raises his arms in a gesture of surrender and walks out of my office, leaving me to wonder if he isn't right after all. Maybe I am going about this in all the wrong way.


	18. There's a Garden Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Garden Club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go again to aspenleaf for requesting the Garden Club meeting (I hope it's everything you hoped), ninapolitan for the Oreo cookie filling reference, and the LTT/LTR girls for hopping on the Mr. H train. nerac and Kassiah, here's your Sleeping Fucking Beauty. The big old ho.

Fucking Saturday morning. Saturday fucking morning. _Edward_ is already awake. _Edward_ has plans with Jasper today. _Edward_ has left his fucking iPhone in his fucking iHome and set it to go off at the ungodly hour of seven playing what, exactly? _Shiny Happy People._ Shiny. Fucking. Happy. People. Being the electronically-challenged imbecile that I am, I have no idea how to eliminate the sound of Shiny. Fucking. Happy. People. Which is why I'm stalking through Rich Kid's apartment wearing nothing but his unbuttoned dress shirt when I walk right into Jasper, knocking him on his ass. This is the reason that Rich Kid finds me, all but naked in his dress shirt, sprawled on top of his best friend at seven-oh-fucking-four in the morning. This is how my Saturday begins.

When Edward finds us, Jasper is frantically trying to button Rich Kid's shirt while I'm trying to fight his ass off. Dude fails to realize that if I'm not wearing panties, the fact that my shirt is open is really a moot point. Edward sees us, and instead of getting jealous like a normal guy would, laughs so hard I'm hoping he'll piss himself.

It would serve him right.

“Baby Swan,” he gasps, “did you fucking jump Jasper or just land there?”

I narrow my eyes. Oh, it's fucking on, Trust Fund Boy. Jasper, this is my mental apology for the sin I'm about to commit.

“Well, Rich Kid, Alice told me that Jasper has the biggest cock she's ever seen. I needed to find out what I was missing.”

Jasper gasps, and Edward hesitates just long enough for me to think I've got him, but then he starts laughing again. Assfuck. I can't even make him jealous. I fight my way out of the freeform Twister game Jasper and I seem to have gotten ourselves into and stomp back to Edward's bedroom. Fucking men. Fucking Saturdays.

Fucking seven o'clock wake-up bullshit.

Now that I'm up and completely embarrassed, I might as well start getting ready. Esme is going to pick me up at eleven and hopefully have me home by four, since

Alice is picking me up at five. This not having a car thing is really sucking mightily. I'm at the mercy of people with cars, which means I'm going to be unable to leave any of these soirees early today. I can still hear Jasper apologizing when I get into the shower, and Edward's low laugh. I should be paranoid that Jasper saw me naked. I should be upset and worried that Edward will hate me. Instead, I'm able to laugh at the ridiculous situations I keep finding myself in when it comes to Rich Kid's best friend.

Of course, all this morning has done is reinforce my sense of dread about the pathetic display I'm bound to make at the Garden Club thing. I have a single decent dress, and by decent, I mean I even paid full price for it at Tarzhay. It's sort of Donna Reed meets Rockabilly and I hope it's okay with Esme because I don't have anything else. By 10:30, I make my way out to the living room where Jasper and Edward are parked in front of Edward's laptop, making noises about the fucking site.

I even put my hair up, so you'd think the least Rich Kid can do is make grunt noises like he sees I made the attempt for his mother.

He finally looks up and his mouth drops open. I'm afraid that he's going to say I can't wear what I'm wearing, especially since I'm wearing seamed stockings with the dress, but Jasper smiles, so I think maybe he's just shocked that I'm not wearing the combat boots. I'll admit that I thought about it for a fraction of a second, but I really didn't want to do the whole fish-out-of-water routine. This shit is My Fair Lady enough without me dressing like a freak. Much.

His mouth is still hanging open, so I ask Jasper what they are doing today while I'm out with Esme and then Alice. He stutters a bit when he says “Just guy stuff,” so I turn the hairy eyeball on Rich Kid.

“Edward? What are you two doing while I'm out with your mom and then Alice later?” “Not much... We'll probably hit some strip joints and the like.” “Strip joints. Did you really say 'joints', Edward? Strip joints?” He gives me a smug smile and then I hear the doorbell. Esme sent the driver up for me. It's Laurent? Edward groans behind me.

“Laurent?”

His one word question seems to ask far more, and Laurent finally speaks in the coolest fucking patois, “Your grandmama is in the car, Mister Edward.”  
I look back and forth between Edward and Laurent. “Grandmother? The one you were talking about on Wednesday?”

Rich Kid is pinching the bridge of his nose again. This can't be good. He exchanges some sort of look with Laurent before addressing me.

“Baby Swan? In my mother's handbag will invariably be some Xanax. Don't take more than two, okay? Laurent is driving and most likely carrying bail money. He'll take care of you.”

I get one brief second to look at him in terror before Laurent takes my arm to guide me out to the waiting car. Jesus Oreo filling Christ what have I gotten myself into?

~ E~

Once Baby Swan leaves, Jasper and I have to plan our actual activities for tonight. If I'm remembering correctly, she used to leave to help James get ready for his drag performances at about seven. I'm counting on Jasper being unfamiliar enough to get us past the initial problems. As Bella said that first night, “if you bring a guy, at least they'll leave you alone. Well, for the most part. James will go after any hot guy with a pulse:straight, gay, or animal-lover.” I'm counting on the belief that he stayed focused on me that night and ignored Jasper, and we are taking Jasper to the salon for a complete metrosexual make-over. Hence the reason I couldn't bring up the lunch box. I was already asking him to get a facial and a manicure for me.

Alice, of course, was in on the entire thing. I'd expected her to be reluctant; after all, she's known Bella and James longer than she's known Jasper and me. When I spoke to her, though, she agreed that James needed to be taken down a peg or two, and reminded that hurting Bella wasn't part of being her friend or taking care of her. All I planned on doing was getting to talk to him, reminding him that Bella was a precious gift in both our lives, and that if he couldn't support her decisions, he needed to bugger off. Getting around Emmett may prove to be a bit of a problem, but a little bird told me that my sister had sent her number to him via Baby Swan. I can only hope she managed to talk him into a date tonight, or was at least accompanying him to the club.

Alice is meeting us at the spa, and then we are going to lunch and clothes shopping. I have a feeling she'd been dying to assert her influence on Jasper's style and making him into a believable gay man to lure James over was more fun than a shopping spree to her. I'm hoping that whatever Jasper demands in return for getting through this day isn't going to be too difficult to deliver; Alice has been making noises about a yellow Porsche for her involvement and continued secrecy.

I'm forced to sit at the spa with both of them. Jasper's normally messy hair is being styled with some sort of goo while someone else works on his nails, filing and doing all sorts of unmentionable things to them. I'm wildly looking around, hoping no one recognizes us here, while Jasper is making gagging noises at the girl doing his nails when she asks him if he'd like clear coat or just a buff. Of course, since we are both pre-teen boys on the inside, we act like she asked if he wanted muff and crack up. Alice is afraid to mess up Jasper's hair, so I'm the one who gets smacked in the back of the head to shut up.

Next up is shopping and Alice drags us from store to store, buying up a storm. I'm not sure any of it is actually meant for tonight, but she's seized on the opportunity to add to Jasper's nerdrobe of khakis and wrinkled button-downs. By the tenth store, I lead the revolt against Captain Bligh, and Jasper throws his lot in with me.

“Alice, sweetheart, you have to feed us at some point.”

She stomps her foot like a toddler before responding. “Only to the food court, Jasper. We still haven't gotten just the right look for you.”

All that's left for me is to size up the food court offerings and find the meal that will take the longest to get us away from shopping. Who knew Alice was going to be such a fucking pain in the ass?

~ B~

I know I'm in trouble the second I step into the limo. On one side is Esme. On the other side is the Crypt Keeper in a pillbox hat. Seriously. The woman (I hope it's a woman) is older than Methuselah, smaller than Alice, and appears to be mummified. She's a walking fucking fossil. Her suit and hat appear to be Jackie Kennedy-era style, and she has a martini glass in one hand and a cigarette in a holder in the other. Esme slides over to make room for me, and hands me a silver flask and a bottle of pills.  
  
“Isabella, this is my mother, Ermentrude Platt. Mother, this is Edward's young lady, Isabella Swan.”

At the conclusion of her introductions, Esme takes a swig from her own flask as I contemplate mine.

“It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Platt,” I offer.

She stares at me and holy fucking hell, I swear the old prune has X-ray vision, because she's staring through me.

“Are you fucking my grandson in hopes of getting yourself in trouble and snaring his trust fund, Miss Swan?”

I turn to Esme in sheer terror, and she pointedly stares at the flask and bottle of pills she's handed me. I unscrew the top and take a snort, realizing she's filled my flask with Patron. I may dump Rich Kid and marry his fucking mother. I dump one of the pills out of the bottle, wash it down with another hit of tequila, and turn to Granny Platt.

“No, actually, I come from circus people. Your grandson is fucking me because I can wrap my ankles around the back of my neck.”

Esme snorts next to me, and Granny Platt focuses her beady little brown eyes on me. “You may do, Miss Swan. You may very well do.”

Laurent's wide grin is visible in the rearview mirror and I take one more swig from my flask. Shit, after dealing with this woman, the Garden Club women are going to be a fucking cakewalk.

# # #

Laurent helps us out of the car, no small feat since the car ride gave me enough time to get seriously messed up and Esme and Granny Platt had a leg up on me. Trudy—as she's asked me to call her now that drugs and alcohol have made us bosom buddies—takes point as we enter, and the crowd parts like the motherfucking Red Sea. Esme seems to have loosened up quite a bit, and I'm unsure how much of that is chemically induced. As the stories start flying, Esme quickly becomes the queen holding court, particularly after the whispers start that someone mistook Rosalie, Miss Debutante 1997 or some shit like that, for a drag queen.

The funniest thing about it is that the stories should have been mortifying Granny Platt. Esme lives in abject fear of her mother. Yet this hilarious and totes embarrassing story has even her mother focused on her, and I'm not so fucked-up I can't see how Rich Kid's mom is sort of preening in front of her mother's attention. Except for the two minutes it takes Granny to yank a bottle of hooch from her oversized bag and spike the fruit punch, she never takes her attention from her daughter. Of course, since I've watched at least four other women do exactly the same thing, the punch now looks like vodka with a pinkish cast.

The best thing about this whole afternoon so far has been watching Esme. I wonder how much she has been like me, hiding behind the whole society matron bullshit with no one seeing her for who she really is. She's nervous around her mother. Reminded constantly of her husband's infidelity. Yet here she is, finally being herself, and everyone seems to love her. When the “meeting” (and I'm totes using air quotes because there was no meeting, no talk of gardening, and actually, nothing but drinking) winds down and we are gathering our things, Granny Platt turns to Esme and asks, “Esme, would it be possible for you to bring me to one of these performances?”

Esme bites her lip, busted. She's seen nothing but the pageant and doesn't know much about the drag scene here in town. This is when her pills and booze investment in me pays off, because my mouth moves much faster than my brain.

“Why don't we bring her along with us tonight, Esme? We were planning to go anyway.”

Esme is so relieved (and drunk) that she hugs me, which is why I find myself leaving a message on Alice's cell to tell her that plans have changed, and she should meet us at the club because I'm bringing my boyfriend's mother and a human raisin to the drag show tonight. Of course, the ladies Platt being what they are, we need to make a few stops for more alcohol first. I'm sure that if her BAC drops too low, Granny Platt will turn into dust right before my eyes.

~ E~

Jasper and I are exhausted from the shopping, and nervous as hell about doing this. Now that we're actually here, I'm wondering what the fuck possessed me to do this. All it takes is thinking about Baby Swan— laying in bed, in that pile of soiled tissues, puking into a bucket—to get me back in the mood. I'm going to put James in his place and attempt to put him in the frame of mind to support Baby Swan in whatever the fuck she wants to do. I don't care if that's staying with me, writing a fucking novel, or taking the next space shuttle. He's supposed to be her best friend and instead, he's hobbled her by stealing her self-confidence.

Alice knows James all too well, and can't come into the club. She's promised to be our driver tonight, seeing as Jasper and I thought a hefty dose of liquid courage was needed to do this. We'll have to call her when we are ready to go, and she's promised to go no farther than the all-night cafe only a few streets away in case we need to make a hasty get-away.

Steeling ourselves, Jasper and I enter the club and head straight for the bar. My guess is that we'll need to be plastered to get through this—after all, Jasper needs to flirt with men—so we obviously need to drink more. My first sign that things may not go my way tonight occurs when I smile politely at a drag queen next to me.

She's wearing low-cut jeans that appear painted-on, a pair of ridiculously high heels, and a skin-tight red top. She hisses as I turn away from her, and somehow, knows my name.

“EDWARD! What the fuck are you doing here?”

I turn back to the queen, sure it isn't Victoria, and realize when staring at her full-on, it's my sister.

“Rosalie?” Shit, I must be drunker than I thought.

“Edward, what are you doing here? I thought you and Jasper were going out tonight.”

I point over to the other end of the bar, where Rosalie can clearly see Jasper getting hit on by some guy in leather chaps. And apparently, nothing else. He's ten different shades of red, and Rosalie punches my arm.

“Seriously, Edward, what the fuck are you doing here? Is there something about you and Jasper you've never told me? I always did think you two were unnaturally close.”

I roll my eyes at her. “No, Rosalie. We're here so I can talk to James.”

“By 'talk' do you by any chance mean lecture, argue with, or otherwise cause a scene involving?”

I purse my lips and look away.

“Look, Edward, obviously whatever goes on with you and your freaky-ass friends is none of my business. However, I'm here with James' brother. Don't fuck things up for me.”

With that, Rosalie stalks off, and I'm left staring after her like I've just witnessed the opening of the Seventh Seal. Is she seriously dating Emmett? The conspiracy theorist? My first thought is that he's after her to find out secrets about the company, but Rosalie is no fool. Could they really be interested in each other?

I'm left with no time to think about it further as Man with Ass Hanging Out of Chaps walks by me, patting my back. “That's a fine specimen you have there, buddy. If you ever get tired of him, let him know I'll bottom for him anytime.” He slides what appears to be a phone number into the pocket of my jeans, and I'm torn between vomiting and bolting out of the club. I decide that bolting is a better option, but Jasper staggers up to me, appearing far drunker than he should be for the amount of time we've been here.

“Jasper? Are you okay?” I ask him.

“Edward! Who the fuck knew I was so fucking attractive to men? I shoulda gone gay a long time ago. Sure as shit easier than picking up chicks,” he slurs, and I arrive at the conclusion that men have been buying him drinks. Fuck me running, if he's this drunk, how am I ever going to get him to flirt with James long enough to bring him over? Jasper and Alice both had roles to play, and have failed: Alice by shopping our asses off and not getting enough food into us, and Jasper for getting too drunk. What else can go wrong?

Sign number two is what else can go wrong, and that one hits me right between the eyes as I try to seat Jasper at a table so I can head up to the bar for a second time. This time, I want to order a Coke so I can attempt to get Jasper at least somewhat sobered up to hopefully execute my plan. As I push him toward the chair, I hear a loud cackling I've only heard twice in my life. The first was when I saw the movie Sleeping Beauty, and the ultimate cock-blocker of all time, Maleficent, pulls off one of her evil schemes. The other time I've heard that cackle is when something amuses my Grandmother Platt. Based on where I currently am, I'm guessing I have more of a chance of meeting up with Maleficent than Esme's mother, but as I glance over at the next table, I get the shock of my young life. Seated there are my mother, completely annihilated, naturally, my grandmother, in her usual state of constant inebriation, and Bella, likewise drunk and seemingly having the time of her life. Sign number two was the one that should have made me realize this was the wrong fucking idea, but I'm nothing if not stubborn, and I was going to see this through to the end.

I manage to pour Jasper into a chair and am making off to the bar when Grandmother Platt recognizes me. The woman has to be at least 150 years old, yet she can manage to recognize her grandson in a gay bar. Let it never be said that Lucifer doesn't really let people sell their souls, because Grandmother Platt is living, breathing proof.

“Edward?” she bellows. “Esme, love, is that Carlisle's Edward?” Ah yes, Grandmother. Let's not ever let Esme forget my true parentage. That would be too kind. Esme looks over and squints, obviously not having made a deal with the devil for eyes of a cat, before elbowing Bella nearly hard enough to knock her out of her chair.

“Bella? Bella, is that Edward?”

Baby Swan has righted herself in her chair, and peers over owlishly. “I dunno, Esme,” she slurs. “Sure does look like him, but he'd never be here.”

Luckily, I'm saved then by the start of the show. Some ancient disco number starts and I scurry off to the bar, hoping that the Trio of Doom will forget they saw me and I can finish up my plans. Sign number three, however, becomes my third out in this ridiculous game I had planned. Victoria once again opens the show, and two drunks leave their tables to go tipping. One is Jasper, as we had planned, but the other is none other than Grandmother Platt, toting her Hermes Birkin bag that's nearly as large as she is.

Now, I've never in my life seen this woman part with a dime that wasn't spent on herself, but she's digging in her purse as Jasper sways, holding out a bill. At some point, either I completely sobered up, or reality set in, because it hits me that my plan was shit. I never should have contemplated talking to James behind Bella's back. I certainly shouldn't have involved Jasper and Alice in my plan, and I definitely shouldn't have added alcohol to this volatile mix.

My original plan had Jasper flirting with James to lure him over to me, where I'd give him a proper dressing-down, with a few threats thrown in for good measure. The actual execution, however, doesn't go quite so seamlessly.

Jasper, it seems, has decided that Victoria should leave the stage and come with him. He's grabbing onto her dress and Victoria is trying valiantly to pull away. In the exchange, Jasper must have said something to Grandmother Platt. All I hear of the yelling is “Bella” before Grandmother starts swinging the Birkin at Victoria's head, knocking her wig off. I start pushing through the crowd, hoping to pull Jasper and Grandmother off Victoria before something really bad happens, only to be instantly spotted by Victoria.

You probably think things can't get worse, right? You're wrong. Victoria, in six-inch platforms, leaps off the stage at me, screaming, “You will ruin her! You are ruining everything.”

I'm not one to hit a girl, but well, she's trying to gouge my eyes out with her acrylic nails, and she does have a dick under that dress.

I think I hear my mother and Bella screaming, but I've given up any hope of having a civilized conversation with James, and am simply trying to get his ass off me. Grandmother Platt has apparently decided that in- law blood is thicker than water, and tries to assist me, but before she can inflict much damage, club security has waded in and is separating us, dumping us all out of the club, including James.

Emmett and Rosalie must have spotted the fracas, and have followed us out, Rosalie holding her forehead with her hand. I hang my head, embarrassed at where this has landed us, only to hear Baby Swan choking. I'm too afraid to look up and see her crying, so I bury my face in my hands.


	19. There's a Garden Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Garden Club.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to mozzer0906 for "rip off his cash and prizes."

I've died, and there is apparently a hell just for circus freaks, because I'm totes there. I am experiencing a moment here that is too fucking unreal to be believed involving a California Raisin (drunk), a society matron (see above), a drag queen, a conspiracy theorist, a snooty rich bitch, the CEO of a hot Internet property, the CTO of the above-referenced company, and me. We have been kicked out of a gay bar, and things cannot possibly get more surreal, right?

Never say never.

I'm drunk. Completely shithoused, and this Xanax shit is awesome for making sure you don't have a fucking care in the world. Ordinarily, I might be a wee bit upset at the events of the last ten minutes or so, but my new friend Vitamin X has me in a happy place that allows me to sit on the sidewalk, watch this fracas, and laugh my ass off. I'm laughing so fucking hard at how ridiculous we must look that I'm crying, choking as I try to catch my breath. It's beyond any crackfic I've ever read.

I have no idea how we are going to pour Granny Platt and Esme into the limo. Actually, I have no idea where the hell the limo even is, because Laurent is nowhere to be seen. Nowhere. This does not bode well for us getting out of here without further incident, and I attempt to push myself off the sidewalk to get Rich Kid to triangulate on his butler/driver/bail money holder. The only problem is that I'm way too late to get anything done, because Edward and Victoria are finally facing off, and I'm caught in the horror show that is my life.

It's Edward who gets things started again. “James, what is your problem with me? I fucking love her. I want to make her happy. Why is that such a problem for you?”

Victoria was channeling Felicia from Priscilla or some shit because she's dressed like the second zombie coming of Carmen Miranda, complete with black lipstick and fruit on her head. Too bad she can't see how fucking ridiculous she looks as she bites back, “You have no concept of love. You've known her what? Two weeks? Three weeks? You know nothing about her. Nothing.”

I know I should step in. I really do. Yet, I'm following the volleys like it's Wimbledon.  
  
“So I guess knowing her means sheltering her and never encouraging her to do anything so you can keep her to yourself? Is that what loving someone means to you, James?”

Vicky's quick on the draw. “As opposed to paying her to fuck you like you are?”

You know, that's the second time he's called me a whore. Xanax or no Xanax, I think one was definitely my limit. I stand up, walk calmly to Granny Platt as Edward lunges for Victoria, and hold out my hand. Trudy smiles proudly, hands me the Birkin, and I swing. I manage to clock Rich Kid in the shoulder before nailing Vicky in the 'nads.

“At this point? Both of you can fuck off. Jamie, Rich Kid is right. The only way you would be happy is if I hagged for you forever. I need more than temping and managing your make-up case to be a well-rounded person. I love you dearly, but I can't hide behind your size 14 platforms forever.”

Edward is standing with his arms crossed and looking smug when I turn on him.

“Then there's you, Edward. Always thinking you know better than me. What makes you think, in the time we've been together, that I need you to fight my battles for me? You planned this whole damn thing, from conspiring with Alice to whatever the fuck you did to poor Jasper today to make him look like the Queer Eye guys got hold of him, without ever once asking me what I wanted, or how I thought handling Jamie should go. I'm not an imbecile, and I can fight my own damn battles.”

I'm so done with both of them. I hand the bag back to Granny Platt, thank Esme for a lovely day, and take off walking, leaving the mess behind me. Even as I hear loud voices and sounds of the Birkin thud, I don't turn around, walking until I turn the corner and find Laurent, lounging on the hood of the limo chowing down on street meat.

“Miss Swan, I do believe the police have become involved in a situation at the club you just left. May I drive you home?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Can I bring street meat into the limo?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Do you have a refill for this flask here?”

“I believe your drink of choice is Patron, Miss Swan?”

He hops down and opens the door of the limo, heading back over to the vendor after I'm seated. Once I'm inside, he hands me my dog and the bottle of Patron.

“Miss Swan, would you like to head straight home or drive around for a bit? I probably should check on Mrs. Cullen and Mrs. Platt.”

“We can drive, Laurent.” I'm totes onto him now; we're going rubbernecking. Sure enough, he drives past the club where I see several police cars, two policemen attempting to get close enough to a swinging Birkin to get Granny Platt into the cruiser, and Alice rolling her eyes at the carnage while talking to another officer. I'm guessing she's trying to find out where they will all be taken. Emmett and Rosalie are nowhere to be seen, and I assume they made tracks hastily when the fight broke out. To be honest, I wasn't paying attention to them.

I feel a little guilty about Esme and Granny Platt, but something tells me they are both having the time of their lives. As for the rest of them, sitting in the clink should cool them off a bit. I lean back in the comfortable seat with my dog and my tequila and call up to Laurent.

“I thought you carried the bail money, Laurent.”

I could see his huge grin in the rearview mirror.

“Don't worry. I already called Mr. Cullen. He'll meet them there. He told me to take care of you.”

I smile back and close my eyes. Maybe now people will stop thinking I'm a damn child who needs to be taken care of and have her decisions made for her all the time.

~ E~

Thank god Jasper is drunk, because if he was sober, I'm pretty sure he'd be trying to kill me. As it is, he's alternating between glaring at me and laughing his ass off at Grandmother Platt, who is wildly swinging her purse at the police informing them that she can buy and sell all of them.

I wonder exactly how much she, my mother, and Bella had to drink as I hold my head in my hands. I don't even know where Baby Swan is at the moment; she took off just as the police were showing up and my grandmother started cackling that the “po-po” weren't going to “beat her down.” It's amazing what 900 years of prescription drug and alcohol abuse will do to a person.

Still, as I sit here and analyze how many different ways I have completely fucked this up, I'm amazed at what I'm seeing. My sister is apparently happy, dating someone way outside her comfort zone, and enamored enough with him to go to a gay bar. Jasper is so in love with a girl that he's willing to go through a day of shopping, a spa day, and a total metrosexual makeover. Then, as icing on the cake, my mother is getting along with her mother for the first time in perhaps my entire life, and Grandmother Platt seems to be enjoying herself. This is the change that Baby Swan has wrought in such a short amount of time that my head is still spinning.

Of course, it's spinning in the back of a police car.

As we are brought into the station and put through whatever procedure is required when bringing people into a police station, I wonder where Laurent is. I wasn't kidding when I told Baby Swan that he was carrying bail money; I know that he's gotten my mother and grandmother out of several difficult situations, but those usually involve society matrons and Grandmother Platt's acidic tongue.

The police sort us into holding areas: Jasper and I to one cell, my mother to another. There is some discussion among the officers over what to do with James, dressed as he is. They obviously can't put him in with the women since he has all of his boy parts, but they don't want to risk putting him in with us,. This is probably a good idea since I would still love to rip off his cash and prizes and let him experience life as a woman anyway. Calling Bella my whore again was beyond over the line.

Finally, they escort him off to change, and scrub off his make-up, returning him to his original male condition, giving him some castoff clothing that they've found. I overhear the officers debating sending him into the single-person cell they reserve for situations like pre-op transsexuals, but apparently Grandmother Platt is causing such a disturbance they feel the need to keep her separated from the rest of the women. Jasper is hanging his head, looking a bit green. I sincerely hope he doesn't start vomiting, because there's only one toilet in the cell and it's not one I'd want to hang my head over. I wonder when we'll get the phone call the movies always promise.

I have no idea how much time has passed before James enters the cell. Without his drag, he appears meeker than the confrontational queen I just dealt with. He makes his way over to where Jasper and I are and stands here, saying nothing. It's obvious that I have to be the one to start the conversation.

“Look, James, I appreciate that she's the closest thing to a sister that you have.” He nods silently.

“I'm not paying her for sex. I'd never do that. Ever. I offered her the job before we even had sex, not that it's really any of your business. She came into work with me one day, did a stellar fucking job at redoing some of our docs, and I asked her to come work there. No strings. She has too much talent to waste answering phones for a week at a stretch. We both want the same thing: Bella happy.”

He looks at me then, and appears more vulnerable than I would have thought him capable of being. “She doesn't need me anymore.”

I gape at him. Is he fucking kidding with this act? She needs him so much she goes back time and time again for more of his abuse because she needs her family, and he and Emmett happen to be it for her.

“James, why would she not need you? The day she had lunch with you, I got to her apartment after work to find her vomiting into a trash can, surrounded by a sea of soiled tissues. I think she needs you very much. What she needs more, however, is for you to support her choices, even if you feel they are making her more independent than you'd like. Of course, if it were up to me, she wouldn't need you at all, and I wouldn't have to worry about you hurting her anymore.”

He nods again, and I wait for him to speak. I'm done lecturing. When he speaks, he gives me the opening I've been waiting for. “I've been pretty selfish, haven't I?”

Ah, yes. Finally, grasshopper. I give him the hairy eyeball I learned from its master, Rosalie.

“Gee, James, do you think? You accused her of taking money and a job from me for sex. You've acted like a recalcitrant toddler with the vocabulary of a truck driver, stomping your foot because Bella was letting someone else into her life and making decisions without asking for your prior approval. I think selfish is an understatement.”  
  
He raises one immaculately sculpted eyebrow at me, and I sigh.

“Yes, James, I've fucked up as well. Tonight's utter fuck-up was another example of me doing exactly what you've done. I'm sure I'll pay for it as well. In my defense, I didn't want her hurt any more by you, but felt you needed to understand exactly how much damage you were doing to her.

“She's a brilliant writer; did you know that?”

He hangs his head. “She always was. In high school, she'd write to get everything out. All the crap about her parents and her situation... It's all she ever wanted to do. When she came back from Cornell after the rejection, I figured she wanted to put it all away and forget she ever wanted to write. We let her.”

I feel guilty then. It wasn't only a fear of losing her that was driving James, but worry that I was pushing her to face something that had already cut her off at the knees.

“James, look at her. Really look at her. Doesn't she seem different? Even in a couple of weeks' time?”

One more nod. He really needed to work on verbal communication skills that didn't involve bitching.

“I honestly believe writing is her oxygen. The whole fanfic thing is tiny breaths above the surface. But she's drowning, not being able to let it out. She needs to write.”

It's now when I put it together. She needed that cushion to come home and get herself back together. The problem was, James and Emmett were too focused on comforting her to realize she needed to get back to what she did best. Instead of encouraging her to try again, they let her hide. Without the shared history they had with her, I'm able to do exactly what she needs: push her out of the bubble they built for her.

James finally breaks the silence.

“I can't be there for her right now if this is what she's going to do. I love her, and I should support her, but you didn't see her, Edward. You didn't know her. If she handled the grad school rejection like that, what is trying to get published going to do to her?”

He underestimates her. Everyone does. I'm about to tell him that when I hear the clanking of keys and a loud sigh, and look up.

Carlisle has arrived.

~ B~

I know that Rich Kid hasn't seen me yet, because he'd have made a comment by now. Laurent and I tooled around in the limo for a bit, but decided the best course of action would be giving Big Daddy C some serious moral support. Beyond bailing out his wife and son, he was going to have to deal with his mother- in-law, and that wasn't going to be pretty at all.

Edward's head pops up and then goes right back down. I think he feels pretty far fucked, so I take a step to the left so he can see me. Jasper spots me right away, but Edward doesn't lift his head, so I intone, “Mickey and Mallory know the difference between right and wrong; they just don't give a damn.”  
  
Jasper is still drunk, and his guffaw echoes in the small cell. Edward looks up at me, his eyes beseeching. They tell me that he's sorry. That he knew better. That he won't do it again. I know he's full of shit, because he's absolutely going to do it again. He has the right motivation for his actions, but his implementation is eight shades of asstard.

Next to him, I'm actually shocked to see Jamie. He's out of drag and wearing some clothes that are obviously out of some lost-and-found box they must keep for the naked guys they taser off roofs and shit. Ordinarily, he wouldn't be caught dead in this mess he's wearing. As bold and bitchy as he was being outside the club as Victoria, he's the exact opposite now: meek and what appears to be apologetic. The cop on duty motions to the three of them and they disappear as we make our way toward Esme and her mother, who've already been released. Granny Platt and Esme are hugging and actually giggling, and I'm not sure who's more surprised by the scene: Big Daddy C or Rich Kid. Carlisle grabs Esme while Laurent, who's joined us (as he really was carrying bail money), manages Granny Crypt Keeper.

Alice is waiting outside, double-parked, and motions for Jasper and Jamie to join her while Rich Kid and I follow the richies to the limo. Edward whispers something to Laurent, and he nods before helping the older richies in. Edward allows me to get in, and climbs in after me, taking the seat next to me and across from the geezer drunks.

Carlisle is the first one to speak.

“I have absolutely no idea what happened this evening, and I am fairly certain that I don't want to know. But Edward, I think you may owe Bella, your mother, and your grandmother an apology.”

Edward's face blanches, and he lifts his head, about to address Trudy and Esme when the old biddy puts a hand up to stop him.

“Carlisle, you nincompoop, shut your trap. Thanks to my grandson and his companion here, I had one of the best nights of my 87 years on this planet.”

Carlisle is gawking at her as she turns her attention to Edward. “Boy, this is the first excellent decision you've made. You come over sometime and get my ring for her.”

Now it's Edward and Esme's turn to stare at Granny Platt, both looking suspiciously teary-eyed. I'm not exactly sure what she means about a ring, but for all I know, dementia has set in. I do know that she's referred to Rich Kid as her grandson for the first time all day, and I wonder if it's as important a development as it feels.

Edward's little tête-à-tête must have been instructions, because the first stop of the Drunk, Drugged, 'n Disorderly Limo Tour is my apartment. Laurent runs around to open the door, doing the whole butler/chauffeur routine. He deviates when he helps me from the car, squeezing my arm, and whispering.

“Mr. Edward's heart is in the right place, Miss Swan.” I nod at him and smile, then turn to wait for Rich Kid, who follows along behind me like a scolded puppy.

We head up to my apartment and I hand him a pair of the pajamas he's started keeping here. I hie off to my bedroom, don the wallowing uniform, complete with Cthulhu slippers, and head back out to the kitchen to start water for some tea. Damn. I should have asked Laurent to come upstairs and whip up a batch of crumpets before he drove off.

“We need to talk,” Rich Kid announces. No shit, Sherlock.

I bring the tea and an unopened pack of those Keebler Fudge Sticks because seriously, who doesn't love a good Fudge Stick? I start chowing through the pack while Edward takes his sweet time ramping up to whatever apology he's going to throw at me.

“Baby Swan, I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Rich Kid.” Damn, I'm sobering up, but am still buzzed enough to go for the condescending knee pat.

“I should have talked to you first.”

“Yep, right again.”

“I shouldn't have gone behind your back.”

“You got it, cowboy. I sure do hate that.”

“All I want is for you to be happy.”

See, here's where I have to sigh and forgive him. I crawl over the futon, spilling his cup o' Sleepytime all over both of us so I can cuddle up to him.

“I know, Rich Kid, and that's why I can't hate your guts. Did you and Jamie have a nice coffee klatsch in jail? Or did he go on ahead and make you his bitch?”

He laughs half-heartedly, but it's nice to hear the rumble in his chest all the same. “He does love you, Baby Swan. I think I just forgot that.” “Shit, Edward, with calling me a whore and all, I sort of forgot that, too.”

Now that the tea is spilled and half the pack of Fudge Sticks has settled in an uncomfortable ball of wax chocolate and Styrofoam wafer cookie in my stomach, we may as well go to bed. I kick off the slippers first, leaving a trail of uniform in my wake as I stumble back to my bedroom.

~ E~

Fuck. Me. Bella had left on everything under the dress, from the seamed stockings to the garter belt to the retro underwear she was wearing. With her hair down and her pajamas off, she looks like she's channeling Bettie Page. Following behind her innocent striptease has Mr. Horrible offering a salute to retro pin-up girls, but there is no way I am acting on it. Not tonight. Not after my behavior.  
  
We reach her bedroom, and she sits on the end of the bed, suddenly shy. I walk to where she sits, kneeling in front of her as I slide my hands up her legs.

“Baby Swan, you are fucking breathtaking in this number, and I hope you wear it again when we've had a better night.”

She smiles at me sadly, but I know that she understands as I unfasten the garters first, rolling the stockings down her legs before pulling her to her feet to remove the rest of the undergarments, which are hot, but don't look very comfortable, especially for sleeping.

I take off my shirt, peeling my t-shirt that I had on underneath, and pull it over her head. We climb into bed together, and I lay on my back, pulling her against my side. She rests her head on my shoulder, throwing one arm and one leg over me, and I am barely able to resist the temptation of rubbing against her leg. She's tired, and probably needing to sleep off whatever chemicals my mother got into her. In no time at all, she's drooling on my bare chest, and I hug her more tightly, wondering once again how I managed to attract this amazing woman.

Then it hits me. Grandmother Platt offered me her ring. Her engagement ring. For Baby Swan. When even that old bat acknowledges the rightness, there's no use fighting it. I will never be happier or more content than I am with Bella. I fall asleep holding happiness in my arms.

 


	20. There's a Mutiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a mutiny that's not on the Bounty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to Emmy1512 for “fucking bitch shitter” which has entered my RL vocab as well and Feisty Y. Beden for the reminder of the horrifyingly white trash dessert Bella brings to brunch.

I'm up before Rich Kid, and the first thing that clicks in my little hamster brain is that it's Sunday, and I'm not sure if we are going to be heading to the Cullen manse for brunch. Considering the odds, I assume that we are, and I want to thank Laurent properly for last night. I start digging around in the cupboards hoping like hell I had what I needed. Shit. Cool Whip. More digging, this time, in the freezer, yields one frozen emergency tub.

The cake is already done and cooling when Edward makes his appearance, somehow managing to look fuckable even when rubbing his eyes and scratching his stomach. I'm sure he's about two seconds from killing the hotness with a sack scratch when he sniffs the air.

“Baby Swan, did you make cake for breakfast?”

“No, Edward. Jesus Betty Crocker Christ, I'm not that much of a child. There's some sort of healthy cereal I bought over there on the fridge,” I reply, waving my arm in the general direction of the tasteless crap. “It said something about wheatgrass or some shit, and it had 'Rich Kid' written all over it.”

“So why are you baking a cake... and sticking holes in it?” Ah... he's spied my secret weapon: the wooden spoon. “Aren't we invited to brunch today?”

He looks thoughtful. “We're always invited to brunch, Baby Swan. Question is whether I want to deal with the grief and aggravation of rehashing last night with my parents. They're bound to be pissed off, regardless of how the story will play at next month's Garden Club.”

I grin at him. “You really don't think your parents had some wild kink sex after your dad realized what a bad girl your mom is?”

He makes a face that looks an awful lot like he might projectile vomit, but he's saved by the ringing of his cell phone. I may have taken the liberty of redoing his ringtones while I was waiting for the cake to bake. I know it's his parents by the sound of Chopin's Funeral March. Rich Kid, however, is not amused when he realizes who's calling. I tune him out as he rolls his eyes and gesticulates various death threats. I have Jello to pour here.

“Yes, Mother, we'll be there. I'll tell her.” He hangs up and turns to me right as I'm putting the dessert in the fridge for phase two of preparations.

“First off, I don't need the extra anxiety of Chopin telling me my parents are going to kill me. Even if my mother was 'busted by the po-po' along with me, I'm a bit worried about the lecture I'm sure to receive from my father. Secondly, what the hell is that dessert, Bella?”

I grin. “I'm one-upping Laurent, Edward, and that's all you need to know. So, we're going to brunch?” “In a while...”

He's walking toward me, looking dangerous, and I suddenly remember I'm wearing nothing but his t-shirt. From the look on his face, he's remembering that as well.  
  
“Rich Kid?”

His hands are already moving under my shirt, grasping my hips and pulling me flush against him, and I feel like I'm going to spontaneously combust as he answers my vague question with his mouth buried in my neck. “You're.... in... my.... shirt.”

I suppose that's some sort of answer, but I don't have time to think about it, because he's just... fucking... everywhere. My experience may be limited to Edward Cullen the Not-Quite-Second only, but this just seems... out of character for him? I can't even catch my breath in this feeling of being devoured. His mouth slants over mine again and again, pausing only to let me inhale before he's there again. My nails claw at his back, moving lower until I realize he's already removed his own boxer briefs, and I moan. I need... more... but as I reach to remove the shirt I'm wearing so I can feel him against every inch of my skin, he fucking growls at me. Growls.

“The shirt. Fucking. Stays. On.”

Okay, then, Caveman Kid. I can't even focus on what I was trying to do, because his hands are pulling me back against him and lifting me, and... oh my fucking hell... he somehow manages to get inside of me before he even gets me to the tiny kitchen table. My head hits the wall as he thrusts, mumbling my name mixed in a string of expletives.

My hands are wrapped in his hair, trying to pull his mouth back up to mine, scared by the intensity of what I'm feeling. I'm trying to concentrate on the pleasure, but all I can think is that he wants me. He wants me. Like this. He wants me so much he wants to fuck me on my kitchen table. He wants me so much he doesn't care that he just slammed my head into the wall.

It's not going to take long, and I can tell he's getting close; he's moaning and keening my name and I can't do anything but pay attention to him: to the fine sheen of sweat I feel on his back, to the wrinkled intensity of his forehead, to the pressure of his fingers digging into my shoulders as he pulls me against him harder and faster. He is lost in this, and I'm so focused on watching him and experiencing him that I don't notice when he lets go of me with one hand and moves it between us.

The second he touches me, I forget what I was paying attention to. Forget my own damn name. His fingers play me as he grates out his plea, “Please, Bella... Please come for me... Please come with me.”

Fucking finally, he brings his mouth back to mine, groaning into my mouth as I'm screaming his name. Three more thrusts and he comes not with a shout, but a whisper, and I feel the tears streaming down my face.

I can hear him swallowing, gasping for air as he rests his forehead against my shoulder. He stays there for an endless minute, my tears running into his hair, before he pulls away to look at me.

“Oh my god. Fuck. Baby Swan? Shit. Baby, I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. Please talk to me. Please...”

He's so sincere that I start laughing along with my sobs and he just looks freaked the fuck out. “I'm fine, Edward. Seriously.”  
  
“But you're crying!”

Duh, like I didn't know that? How do I explain this to him?

“It's just... it's not that the smexin' and stuff with you hasn't been amazing, Edward, but to know that you want me that much...”

“What is 'smexin' and is it even a word?”

“Gah! It means sex, Edward, and get back on topic.”

He pulls me up against him and nibbles on my jaw, just next to my ear.

“You didn't know I wanted you that much? Shit, Bella, I always want you that much. I didn't want to scare the shit out of you. But then you were in my t-shirt...”

I kiss his nose, just to be a pain in the ass. “In that case, I'm going to wear more of your t-shirts. I won't break, Edward, and that was fuckhot.”

He smiles, kisses me again, then lets me down so we can shower and get ready for another Cullen brunch.

~ E~

Baby Swan is in rare form today. First, I fuck her like an animal on her kitchen table, causing me to hate myself, and Bella to beg for a repeat performance. Second, she's made some hellish dessert involving all preservative-laden ingredients that she's bringing along to entertain Laurent, who has apparently found a soulmate of sorts in Bella. They seem to have bonded even further last night. Third, she's chosen to wear a black and white striped top of some sort with black jeans, simulating a prison uniform, which I can only hope doesn't incite my father.

When we arrive at my parents' house, she hands her foil-covered cake pan to Laurent, and admonishes him to make sure he refrigerates the dessert and doesn't peek at the contents. He hands her a mimosa before reminding me that I'm an adult and perfectly capable of making my own drink. He heads back to the kitchen, and I wonder at what point my parents gave up expecting to run their own household. Bella and I make our way to the dining room to discover that Rosalie is already there sitting next to... Emmett?

My mother is looking very relaxed and not at all drunk as she explains that Rosalie has brought along a suitor (using the actual word) and Bella elbows me in the ribs, whispering, “What did I tell you? You mom has that just-fucked face, doesn't she?”

I shudder, and fix myself a drink, forgoing the mimosa and heading straight for my father's Scotch. We'll take a cab home if it comes down to it.

My father—whose expression does seem to match that of my mother's, causing another shudder to go through me—introduces us to Emmett, as if we haven't met. I'm not sure why, seeing as they met at the drag pageant, and I would have assumed Rosalie would remind him when she introduced Emmett, but I have to assume my father remembers quickly when Bella runs over to Emmett and practically climbs into his lap saying hello.  
  
“Do they...” he begins. Rosalie glares, but I'll be damned if she's going to get away scot-free on this one. “Yes, Father. Emmett is James' brother, remember? You met him at the drag pageant?”

It's apparent that the copious amounts of alcohol—as well as the tug my mother was giving him under the table at the restaurant—have left my father with no recollection that he'd even met Emmett before. To let Rosalie stew for a bit, I add, “He's also the guy who thinks I've made a pact with the U.S. government to provide them with our user data.”

Emmett's eyes grow wide, and I know he's panicking at the grilling that is sure to come his way now. I'm not sure how Rosalie had managed to skirt that when she first introduced Emmett as her “suitor.” He's saved, however, by Laurent's latest spectacle. While we'd been focused on Emmett and Rosalie, Bella had helped him cover the dining room table in... dear god... newsprint, and he unceremoniously dumps an enormous pot of... garbage on the table?

My mother, who is apparently growing used to the idea that Laurent will try to impress Baby Swan when she comes over, merely takes a long pull from a flask she whips out. My father gapes, and Rosalie yells an unladylike “What the fuck is that?”

Bella giggles as she and Emmett start digging in with their fingers, much to Rosalie's horror. “That, Miss Rosalie, is crawfish boil, and Miss Swan assures me that she loves it. Now get to peelin',” Laurent answers.

Rosalie looks horrified, but my father and I remember how good the casserole thing was, and dig in, Baby Swan winking at us all the while. Laurent has returned to the kitchen, and everyone gets busy peeling and eating crawfish except for Rosalie, who is fixing herself a drink. Everyone is silent, either stuffing their faces or drinking, when Laurent's laughter peals out of the kitchen. It's bizarre, because I don't think I've ever heard him laugh before bringing Baby Swan around.

Baby Swan is smirking, so I assume it has something to do with her dessert. I won't even bother asking her about the dessert, because I know she won't tell me. Emmett must know her history here at the house, however, and asks for me.

“Beauty, what did you do to make the butler dude laugh like that?”

“Why do you always assume it's me, Mitt-Mitt? Maybe he's in there reading his email or something.”

Laurent comes in as we are finishing and cleans off the table, snickering the whole time. He returns with coffee and Baby Swan's dessert, which is... frightening, at best. I lean over.

“Bella, why does it look like that?” “Well, you take a box cake mix and bake it, then poke holes in it and pour Jello over the top...”

“Jello? The wiggly stuff?”  
  
“Yes, Edward, would you let me finish? Most of us grow up on the great taste of fruit-flavored horse hooves and sugar. So for the cake, you frost the top with Cool Whip after cooling the whole thing.”

“What is Cool Whip?”

“Jesus Frozen Dairy Whipped Topping Christ, Rich Kid, you seriously don't know Cool Whip? It's like fake whipped cream. Full of chemicals and preservatives, and frozen!”

By the love of all that's holy, I have no idea where Bella comes up with this stuff. Rosalie has finally thrown up her hands and gone into the kitchen to make herself a salad, but even my parents are tucking into this artificial dessert with gusto. I'm starting to think the next brunch will involve fast food still in the bag at the rate we are going, but at least my parents are having fun.

~ B~

We spent the rest of the day Sunday at the manse. Rosalie actually seemed to melt a bit under Mitt-Mitt's influence and relax a bit, although she never did try the Jello Cake. It was a nice, relaxing day: perfect to rest up for today,. I'm planning to kick some ass and take some names today. Last week, I'd spent the time I was actually in the office observing the Tools and decorating my cube. This week, I plan to put dynamite in some asses.

The trick here is to not let Rich Kid figure out what I'm up to. He might not take kindly to his part-timer girlfriend rousting the idiots he hired, but something has to give, and it's time to open up the bag of wonders. All I have to do is get to my cube without him any the wiser, so I pull out the Oh-My-Fucking- God-Don't-Even-Think-of-Speaking-to-Me-Until-I've-Had-a-Vat-of-Coffee routine, and he gives me a wide berth, offering only a peck as we leave the parking garage and head up to the office. Score!

Once I'm in my cube, I assemble my project, get myself another cup of coffee, and lie in wait for the Tools. Today is Come to Jesus Day, only in this case, Jesus is Baby Swan. When they've all wandered to the little kitchen area like the lazy sheep that they are, I strike. All five Tools are there, lollygagging as is their usual routine, and I start by slamming books on the table. That big a noise shocks the hell out of these sloths at this hour of the morning, so I point to the books.

“Strunk & White... Little, Brown... Chicago... AP. Do any of you know what these are?”

Leah, the exotic-looking girl who promises to be the biggest bitch about this whole thing, rolls her eyes at me. “Duh. Style guides... grammar guides... we all have them.”

I roll my eyes right back. “Seriously? You could have fooled me. What style guide do you use here?”

She blinks one too many times for me to hope she'll come up with a believable answer, so I answer for her: “You don't, and I already knew that answer. This is the reason why you have different versions of terms from 'email' to 'Web site' all over the site with no rhyme or reason to what you are using.”

She scoffs again. “The users don't care.”

I wore my glasses instead of my contacts today for exactly this reason: so I could look over the top of them and drive home the stupidity of these people with a single look.  
  
“So let me get this straight, Leah, and this question is for the rest of you Tools as well. You are saying that doing a professional job here doesn't matter because the users are all a bunch of idiots who don't know any better? And since the CEO is just a stupid kid, he doesn't know any better either?”

Of course, as I'm finishing my pop quiz, I look up to see Rosalie standing in the doorway of the tiny kitchen area. She walks over to my bag, looks in, and sees the rest of my tricks. Her jaw is tight and she gives me a cold, hard look before turning on her heel and walking away.

I finish my lecture with a lot less oomph than I'd planned. Rosalie seemed really pissed and I'm sure she feels I've overstepped my position as a part-timer, heading right off to Rich Kid to tattle. I continue discussing professionalism and teamwork, and then hand each of them a marshmallow shooter, a bag of mini marshmallows, and a Nunzilla of their own. Not even half an hour later, I have an email from Rosalie, asking me to come to her office immediately. This can't be good.

~ E~

This fucking meeting is taking forever. I forgot to tell Bella this morning that it might run long, and now it's already an hour past our usual lunch time and I'm still here listening to this blather. I swear half these people are here killing time until their options vest and dragging me into the cesspool they are wallowing in.

Stagnant people means stagnant company and I wish I had a Baby Swan for every department here to shake things up a bit.

I'm hoping she didn't wait for me because this meeting is probably going to drag on into the afternoon. I excuse myself long enough to ask my assistant to order lunch for us so at least I don't have to worry that I'll die of starvation rather than boredom. Before I go back into that hell on Earth, I send a quick text to Bella: Sry it didn't wrk out. TTYL?

# # #

The meeting finally lets out at 5:30, and I seriously want to wring someone's neck. Jasper is rubbing his neck and looking so unfocused he could be stoned.

“Are they serious, Edward? They overvalue the company and think it's more important to grow the userbase than to make money?”

I laugh, but it's the laugh of a man on death row. “It's the new Web mentality, Jasper. As long as it's popular, no one thinks it needs to make money, even in this economy. They are scared of a CEO like me who actually has a company turning a profit. Some days I sit in my office wondering how long until the board replaces me with some puppet they can control.”

“Are you meeting Bella?” I'm sure he's asking only to be polite and get me off the topic of my potential career doom, and will run off to his car the second he feels it won't be rude to take off on me.

“I hope so. I planned to meet her for lunch until that bullshit meeting ran into my appointment to file for Social Security. I'm going to call her when I get to my office.”

Of course, when I get to my office, Rosalie is still there, outside my door and looking nervous. She looks at Jasper with a pointed stare that says “go away” and he offers a half-hearted wave before heading to his office to grab his things.

I walk into my office with Rosalie at my heels like an overeager puppy trying to make nice after an accident, but I lack the patience to deal with her today.

“Look, Rose, today has been a fucking bitch shitter of a day. All I want to do is call Bella, get the fuck out of here, and veg somewhere in my underwear. So spit out whatever you feel can't wait until tomorrow.”

“I fired Bella.”

I'm sure I didn't hear her correctly, so I shake the cobwebs out of my head and ask her to repeat it.

“I said I fired Bella, Edward.”

“Rose, what the fuck? Haven't we already been through this? You don't have the right to override my hiring decisions. What the hell got into you? You fucking fired her?”

“Edward, you didn't hear her! It was like she was leading a mutiny! She had the entire docs staff in the kitchen railing about the users being stupid and you being a 'stupid kid who doesn't know any better.' You wanted me to ignore that?”

I rub my face before screwing up my hair even further by raking my hands through it.

“Rose, this is ridiculous. I'm positive you heard whatever you think she said completely out of context. She has no reason to lead a mutiny. Did you ask her about it?”

“Edward, do you think I'm a complete idiot? Of course I did. She admitted that she said it, shrugged, and walked calmly to her cube with security to clean out her things.”

I needed to get out of here. I needed to go find her and find out what sort of stupid shit she's assuming. “Rose, I'll deal with you tomorrow. If I try now, I'm going to tell you to pack your shit.”

Rose takes off for who knows where , and I quickly grab my laptop and start dialing Bella's number on my way to the car. It keeps going right to voicemail, and I know she has to be pissed at Rose, but why won't she talk to me? She has to know I had nothing to do with it, right?

I click over to SMS, look at the last text I sent her and stop dead in my tracks. I told her that I was sorry things didn't work out. I was talking about our lunch plans, but could she possibly have thought I meant her working here?

This is Baby Swan. Of course that's exactly what she thought.

I take off for the parking garage at a sprint, dialing her number again. I'm sure she'll listen to my voice mail, or at least I hope she will.

“Bella, it's Edward. You aren't fired. I have no idea what happened, but you aren't fired. I had no idea Rose did that until five minutes ago. I'm coming over. Do you need anything? Ice cream? Steel-toed boots to kick my ass for having Rose for a sister? Just pick up, Bella. Call me back. Something.”  
  
I break every speed limit by at least 30 miles an hour if not more on the way to her apartment, sliding in behind one of her neighbors who's seen me in and out of the building frequently. I make it to her door, where I see all the things I'd had in her apartment in a box. On top of the box, she's placed a printed image of a skull and crossbones, and I have to laugh, at least a little. I hope it means she had at least a bit of a sense of humor left.

Her apartment door is slightly ajar, so I take the liberty of walking in, knowing if I knock she'll only slam it and lock it on me. She's curled up on the threadbare purple chair, her laptop on her lap, and another box of tissues soiled and cast around her like disgusting little flowers. Her hair is a mess on top of her head, and she's wearing the Drop Dead shirt I told her she couldn't wear her first day of work, along with the rattiest pair of pajama pants I've ever seen: a faded brown with so many pills they look textured. I can't stand the thought of her leaving. Everything before her was monotone. I woke up, went to work, and went home. I'd spend time with Jasper. I never looked at anything around me. I feel like I woke up the day that I met her.

“I know you didn't know,” she states, furiously typing away. “I also know your sister did it on her own. But she's right, you know. I'm not cut out for the Corporate-America, kowtowing-to-The-Man shit.”

I inhale and exhale, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“So I was thinking... if you don't mind me mooching off you for a bit, I could take a few little freelance projects and work on my book.”

I fall onto the futon, confused as all hell. “Baby Swan, what are you suggesting?” She looks up at me, biting her lip as her fingers slow, then silence.

“I'm thinking if it's okay with you, I'd like to move into your place and work on my book. I can pay some of my own way with some freelance stuff. If I'm asking too much, it's okay. Just tell me, and I'll go back to temping tomorrow and stay here. I just figure we are always together anyway, and you're right. I really need to get off my ass and write this. I'd ask you to move in here, but I don't think you particularly like my décor. Plus, my lease is nearly up.”

I raced over here, sure she was going to break up with me, only to find out she wants to move in with me?

She smiles, that blindingly happy smile because, as usual, she's about ten steps ahead of my brain's ability to compute.

“I'm almost done. Let me finish this chapter, Rich Kid, and we can start packing my things.”


	21. There's a DinnerParty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a dinner party.

I have no idea why I'm doing this right fucking now. Everything feels off. The constant Jiffy Pop feel of my thoughts has stopped and now it's like the slow trickle of steam out the top after someone rips the foil. I opened my mouth and words flew out that I hadn't intended to say, as if they were going to explode out of me. I sure as hell didn't mean to accost him the second he walked in like this and blurt out my plan for us to live in sin.

Seriously. I had originally planned to kick him back to his apartment for a couple of days and sort this shit out in my head about living together and book writing.

Instead, he walks in, and all I can think is how much I want to Superglue myself to him so that we can spend every second together for the rest of our lives.

Suddenly, everything makes sense, and it was all lining up to converge in this perfect alignment of the planets. It's like Fate meant for Rosalie to fire me. For Jamie to leave me at the gallery. For everything that's happened these past few weeks. All was meant for me to end up with Edward.

I know that he's here to apologize for his sister. To beg for me to come back to work. Reality is, however, that I understand where Rosalie is coming from. She's scared of me, and doubly scared now that she's let the craziness of Mitt-Mitt and his tin-foil-hat theories into her life. It must feel to her like we are invading her life and her family and that's gotta feel like a full-on assault. The fact that Mitt-Mitt and I come with the added drama of Jamie only adds to her worries about possible batshit crazy contamination tainting her perfect life.

It's also a matter of how Rosalie perceives I'm “using” her brother. Giving me a job, no matter how much I might help those Tools, is too close to Jamie's whore comment for my liking. I'm a bad fit, no matter how well I might be able to write user docs. Moving in with him, even if I can't split the rent on his fucking Barbie Dreamhouse apartment, is more like being a girlfriend. I can freelance, pay for the Quisp and his Bark-and-Berries, and maybe try to talk him into a more affordable apartment.

He wants me like that: passionate and unexpected. I want him like this: equal footing, or at least as equal as I can get considering the metric asston of money he comes along with. I want to be a grown-up. I want to write this hypothetical book that's in me. I'm not good with schedules, so setting time aside after the “day job” doesn't work for me.

Of course, I'm noticing now that he's paler than his usual Casper-esque self, and is staring at me, speechless. I hope he's not going to pass out again—or, god forbid, puke—because I will totes barf myself if I have to clean his puke up. Is he sick? Or maybe...

I'm rushing things. De facto does not mean de jure, Bella. Get a grip. “I-I-I-I-I...” he sputters. I need to start backpedalling, fast.

“Look, Edward, don't panic, okay? I don't know what made me say that. All I'm doing is tossing ideas around. I'm going to go back to temping and do some freelance shit on the side and see if I can maybe pick more up so I can have the kind of schedule I want.”

Hmm. Still not working. He's still pale and sort of sweaty. Maybe he really is going to pass out again. I should get him to sit down.

I cross to him, grabbing his arm and tugging, but he doesn't move. Damn it. There's no way I can catch him if he faints. I yank on his arm again, dragging him toward the futon.

“Edward? Please sit. You are scaring me.” His mouth is moving as he finally sits down, but no sounds are coming out. Fuck.

I race off to the kitchen and return with my trusty bottle of Patron and a glass of ice water, intending to offer him the ice water. Instead, he grabs the Patron out of my hand and swigs straight from the bottle. Jesus 12-Step Christ, I feel like I'm inflicting a lot of damage on this family. In only a few weeks, Rich Kid has gone from cringing at doing a shot without training wheels to swigging from the bottle, something I don't even do.

“You hate my apartment, Baby Swan.”

“Edward, I don't hate your apartment. Your apartment scares me. But I want to be with you more than I'm scared of your apartment.”

“Aren't we moving too fast?” “Edward, we are already living together pretty much. When's the last time you slept alone?” He ponders that for a moment. “The day before I met you,” he answers. “See?” He has to know he's worrying over nothing. “Why do you want to do this now? Why don't you want to keep working on the docs?”

Here's where I have to watch my mouth, and that's a tough thing for a girl with absolutely no filter to accomplish. “Edward, I'm not cut out for the corporate world, and I don't think I'm cut out to work with your sister.”

“I'm firing Rosalie tomorrow,” he offers.

“Edward, I don't want you to fire your sister. She really is looking out for your best interests here. I think it's time that I finally sit down and try to do this writing thing for real. I'll never know until I try it, and I think this is the best way for me to do that, still make somewhat of a living, and spend time with you. I'm not a nine-to-five kind of girl.”

He takes another swig of Patron. “So, you think we'll work okay together? I mean, we haven't known each other that long...”

I grab the Patron out of his hand and take a few long pulls.

“Edward, if you don't want to do this, then say so. I'm okay with that. I know it's sudden. I thought about it and was going to ponder for a couple of days, and then talk to you about it. I can't help that I just blurted it out, but that doesn't mean I don't still think it will work.”

With that, I turn on my heel and head into my kitchen. I know that I've got two fucking pints of Mission to Marzipan, and I'm tucking into one of those fuckers right now. I've already been fired today, and if I'm about to be dumped by my boyfriend, I'm sure as shit going to have a spoonful of Ben & Jerry's in my piehole when he does it.

He follows me into the kitchen after a couple of minutes, giving me just enough time to eat the top third of the pint, well on my way to finishing it. Seriously, this nutrition label is complete shit. A pint is a single- serving container.

“Bella?”

I inhale, shove a heaping spoonful into my mouth, and turn to face him.

I will not cry. I refuse to cry.

“How soon until you think you can pack your shit?”

I drop the ice cream on the floor and launch myself at him. I know it's primo dessert abuse, but I'm about to move in with Edward Fucking Anthony Cullen the Not-Quite-Second. Fuck the ice cream. This is better.

~ E~

When she first announced she was moving in with me, I thought I was going to pass out. I mean, I love her. If I think about it hard enough, I can probably see myself with her for the rest of my life. It's crazy talk considering how long ago we met, but when something is right, it's just right. Who am I to question that?

Yet if you'd asked me what I thought Baby Swan was thinking, moving in together would never have even crossed my mind. She's a free spirit. She loves her quirky apartment with her second-hand furniture and bizarre decorating. Compared to her place, mine looks as sterile as an operating room. There's not much personality there.

I take that first swig of tequila not because I need courage, but because I need to remind myself that this is real. The second is definitely for courage, because I think about the next step after moving in, and it involves kowtowing to my broom-riding grandmother for her ring. A ring means we'd be married. I've known her for three weeks (I think), and we are already moving in together and I'm picturing that ring on her finger.

My father and Jasper were right. I am so fucked.

When I open my mouth and ask her how quickly she can pack, she drops her ice cream and jumps all over me.

“We're really doing this?” she yells. “We are! We're really doing this! Let's go right now and look at your apartment and figure out what I need to bring.”

I raise a single eyebrow, and she grins.

“I'm obviously not talking about my furniture, Rich Kid. But clothes and some of my decorations and shit? Is that okay?”

I look at the saris on the windows and the tie dye blanket on the futon and the tchotchkes she's got scattered all over the place and realize that this sort of garage sale décor is exactly what my place has been missing. It's been missing the touch of Baby Swan.

# # #

We decide to stay at her place for what might well be the last time. Her Hello Kitty sheets are back on her bed as they were the first night, and I smile, wondering if they make sheets like this big enough for my bed.

“Rich Kid?”

“Hmm?” I was already half asleep when she speaks.

“Can I get a pet when I move into your place?”

A pet? Is she kidding? This is Baby Swan. All I can picture is a giant St. Bernard or maybe a six-foot boa constrictor that will need rats for food...

“I was thinking about it. Since I'll be by myself in the apartment working all day—either doing the freelance thing or working on my book—I could use the company.”

A parrot? That would talk back. Maybe I could convince her that a cat would be nice .A small cat. “What, um, were you thinking about for a pet, Bella?” Dear lord, please don't let it be the snake. Or the giant, drooling dog. “Fish? Could I get a fish? Maybe with one of those aquariums or something?”  
  
A fish? All she wants is a fish? That I can handle. “Baby Swan, you are more than welcome to get a fish. In fact, you can get several fish if you like.”

Apparently, there is a higher power who listens, and I'll take 100 fish over the giant slobbering St. Bernard with his friend the snake.

“Edward?” “Yes, Bella?” I'm wondering now if we'll ever actually get to sleep tonight or if this will go on until the wee hours. “Will you do something for me?” I should have known the pet conversation went far too well. “What do you need, Baby Swan? I'll try my best to give it to you.” “Promise me you won't go off on Rosalie about today.”

Now she's asking way too much of me. She shouldn't have been fired in the first place, and Rosalie had already been warned once about overstepping her position. She might have the same trust fund in place that I have, and she might not need the job, but it's more important to her than money. Working for me is one of the first things she's done that she's truly proud of, moving past the money and the privilege to be “normal.” I trust her with a lot more there than tax forms and healthcare plans, and she knows it. Her treatment of Bella feels like she's stabbed me twice, and if I can't trust her with the company, I can't have her working there.

“Bella, please don't ask that of me. I'd already warned her once.” “Edward. Please. For me. This is important. I want you to leave things be with your sister.”

The tone of her voice tells me that this is important to her. I have no idea why, but there's an intensity there that I can't ignore. I sigh, because I can't deny her this.

“I'll give her one more chance, Bella, but I want you to know that I'm pissed at her. I'm also fucking torqued that my user docs won't get fixed now.”

Even in the dark, I can see her wide grin. “Rich Kid, have I discussed my rates for editing?”

~B~

Day one of my new life begins the same as the old life. Rich Kid gets up at an ungodly hour, and I shuffle around after him. Only this time, I follow him to the door and kiss him goodbye. I miss riding into work with him more than I thought I would, but I take the time to sit on my futon and take a look at my apartment. I'm supposed to spend the day getting boxes and packing up what I want to bring to Edward's place, so this is the last time I'll see my place intact, as it was pre-Edward.

If I'd expected to be even slightly sad, I was wrong. I look around and realize it's just stuff. If Edward had told me that he wanted me to leave every single thing here and come to him with nothing more than the clothes on my back, then that's what I'd do. Even if his apartment is completely antiseptic and spartan. My books are obvious, and my CDs as well. My laptop, of course. Looking around at all the crap I'd accumulated, however, I determine that my life can stand a little more streamlining.

Rich Kid left me a key. Fuck packing. I'm off to get my pet. Can't move until I have that in place. ## #

At six o'clock, I'm totes waiting in his apartment. I've put on the dress I wore to Garden Club since it has that halter sort of thing working and the puffy skirt and I look like Donna Fucking Reed or some such shit. I'm cooking dinner, so we have that domestic thing down, and I've even moved a few of my things over. Well, if by things I mean my laptop and my deodorant and a few changes of clothing I'd already left here, and if by dinner I mean beans 'n franks. Rich Kid needs to understand

I have to start somewhere.

He walks in and I have that surreal 50s sitcom moment where he does the Ricky Ricardo thing, and I prance over like Lucy to kiss him on the cheek and hand him his paper and Scotch. Only it's a Guinness and he reads his news online like a normal person.

Rich Kid likes the dress, because he pulls me in for a fuckhot kiss that's all handsy and breathless, but I can tell the exact moment when he opens his eyes for just a second and looks over my shoulder. It's sort of obvious when he ends the kiss I thought was going to get me laid and yells.

“Baby. Fucking. Swan!! What the fuck is that thing?” I suppose I could play stupid and ask “Whut” but I don't like playing dumb, even if I think it will spare me a  
bit of chastisement. That doesn't mean I can't play innocent, however.

I look over my shoulder. “Oh, you mean Birkin?”

“Birkin? It's a fucking monster. What is it? Did you actually find Nessie in a pet store?”

“Rich Kid, calm down. First of all, it's no monster, and it has no interest in eating human flesh. Second, you did tell me I could get a fish.”

See? That's the innocent part. I know damn well Rich Kid was totes thinking goldfish in a bowl, not a 12- inch Oscar in a 55-gallon tank.

“How... how did it get here?”

“Oh, see, I know this queen who's a friend of Jamie's...”

“Never mind. I don't want to know. Is it here temporarily?”

I can sense the tension, but he needs to understand Birkin is here to stay.  
  
“Rich Kid, you said I could get a fish. So, I did. Now stop insulting him, because he's totes sensitive.” With that, I walk to the aquarium, and Birkin swims over like he's greeting me. Edward hies off in search of alcohol, which I already know is stored not in a liquor cabinet like you'd expect, but in his coat closet. Handy if you've had a rough day at the office: walk in, hang up your coat, and start slugging.

“Baby Swan, that has to be the biggest, ugliest, scariest fucking fish I've ever seen.”

That nets him the hairy eyeball from me. “Edward, he's like a dog in a tank. Now leave him alone.”

I coo to Birkin as Rich Kid rolls his eyes. That's when the buzzer rings.

“Buzz them in, Edward.”

“Buzz who in? How do I know it's even for us? I'm not expecting anyone.”

“I invited Alice and Jasper for fucking dinner, Edward, so we can entertain like normal people so buzz them in, will you? Emily Fucking Post would have your head on a platter for leaving guests waiting like this.”

I know he's a bit bewildered, but dude needs to suck it the hell up. He hits the buzzer, then turns to me. “You invited people for dinner, but you didn't bring any of your shit over?” I bite my top lip as I think about it. “Did too. I brought my laptop and some clothes and Birkin's shit...”

“Bella, I meant your stuff. The rest of your stuff.” We hear the knock and he hesitates with his hand on the doorknob for a brief second. “We'll talk about this later, Baby Swan.”

~ E~

The girl is absolutely bizarre. She moves over the bare minimum of her stuff, but dresses up like Dolly Fucking Homemaker and throws a dinner party.

Then for dinner, she serves cut-up hot dogs in beans, with crème brulee she's made herself for dessert. She acts the perfect hostess, then whips out a set of poker chips after dinner.

When Bella announces our new living arrangements, Alice is pragmatic, most likely due to years of experience. Jasper, however, is enchanted, and thrilled at the news. Something tells me he isn't far behind in planning a future with Alice, but they seem much calmer about the future than Baby Swan and I are.

“Bella,” he drawls, accentuating his accent to flirt with her, “was that your first bar fight? And how did the rest of your evening proceed while the rest of us were in the pokey?”

“Mister Whitlock, it's not polite to ask a lady about her arrest record. I thought we talked about minding your mama's lessons.”

He laughs, yet continues, “You seem to have gotten along like a house afire with Grandmother Platt. How did you manage that? The old bat hates everyone.”

She sobers up a bit, less amused with this line of questioning, and I wonder why.

“Jasper. Grandmother Platt is bored, and probably very lonely. I think she took Esme's side once upon a time and felt betrayed when Esme didn't stay with her, and she's been taking out that loneliness on everyone since. Maybe all she wants is to feel included.”

Jasper laughs out something that sounds like “Included on a porn shopping trip next time” but I'm deep in thought and not paying much attention. I haven't thought about it before this, but Baby Swan is probably the most perceptive person I've ever met. I saw it the first time we went to lunch with Jasper, and she sussed out his accent quickly, knowing to hit the “didn't your mama teach you?” card. She figured out the relationship between Esme and her mother in one drunken and drug-fueled day, and has my father and our fucking butler wrapped around her little finger.

Then she comes to my apartment to set up house with a few clothes, her toothbrush, and the ugliest damn fish I've ever seen. I want her clutter and her chaos and she brings me 1950s dinner party simplicity and poker, in which she cheats, badly.

In three weeks, I've lost all memory of what my life was like before I saw Baby Swan on a bench with her lunch box. It feels like the moment when Dorothy opens the door in her black and white house and steps into a full-color world.

I watch her at the aquarium with Alice and Jasper, poking the glass to harass her fugly-ass fish, and ponder how seamlessly she filled the hole in my life I had no idea that I even had.


	22. There's Retro Underwear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's retro underwear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lovin-the-Handsome-Hobo for “Christ on a salsa-covered corn chip,” and to the girls over at Ravelry UU, especially Maylin, who really did dye some fuckawesome orange and purple yarn she called Baby Swan, and who came up with the idea of a Mr. Horrible hat.

By the end of the night, I've managed to get Birkin to swim to the top of the tank and let me pet him. Alice pretends to be disgusted, but I can tell she is intrigued as Jasper braves the tank and touches my fugly new pet. Rich Kid, however, is standing in the corner looking all sorts of pensive, and I can feel an ache in my stomach just looking at him. I wish I could read his mind and figure out what sort of mind-fuckery he's putting himself through. The man over-thinks everything.

Even as Alice and Jasper say their goodbyes, he's distant and distracted, and I begin to worry. Maybe the whole dinner party thing was a bad idea. Maybe Birkin was a bad idea. I wish for two seconds I could think like Edward thinks. It would save both of us a hell of a lot of angst. Biting my lip, I begin to clean up glasses and dishes, carrying them into the kitchen. I know he has a cleaning service come in probably every day, but I'll be damned if I'll leave a fucking mess just because I can.

I'm the girl who makes the bed in a hotel room because I feel guilty.

He follows me into the kitchen like a wraith, silent and graceful. He hasn't spoken a word to me in over an hour, and I'm wracking my peabrain for what I might have done to piss him off when I feel his warm breath on my neck and his fingers ghosting along my bare arms.

Oh.

I drop the dishes I was rinsing back into the sink, and he reaches around me to turn off the running faucet. Now the only sound is my ragged breathing as his lips brush my neck. I close my eyes and slowly tilt my head, allowing him more access as he runs his tongue in one slow, sensual line from my shoulder to my jaw.

Oh. My.

His hands apply more pressure, sliding down my arms to my dress, bunching the skirt in his fingers as he drags it higher, hiking it to my waist before his fingers skim the bare flesh revealed between the garters. His throaty groan is the first sound that he makes.

He spins me, pressing my back against the counter, and I expect the kiss to be fierce... commanding.  
  
Instead, it is sweet and gentle, starting with tiny pecks that turn lingering, then open-mouthed kisses that lead to his tongue brushing along the seam of my lips.

I thought he would devour. Instead, he savors.

He lifts the dress over my head, leaving me in the Bettie Page lingerie he'd so admired the other day. His eyes flicker, but aside from the single groan, he is still silent, which is why I'm startled when he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the bedroom. He lays me on the bed gently, as if I'm a precious gift being offered on an altar to his god.

I reach for him, but he steps back, standing in the moonlight streaming through the window and undressing slowly as I watch. I want so badly to leave the bed and tear his clothes off, but something in his eyes stops me, leaving me panting as I watch him unfasten each button in excruciatingly slow motion.

Stripped to his boxer briefs, he comes back to the bed, kneeling between my calves. His hands slide from my ankles to the tops of the stockings and down again and I writhe, wanting him to hurry yet powerless to move. I whimper when his fingernails brush my skin as he unhooks each garter so fucking slowly I want to scream for him to just rip the damn stockings. Then I feel his fingers against my skin as he slides my stockings down each leg and meets my eyes.

I feel fucking worshipped.

Never breaking eye contact, he slides up my body, his lips and tongue mapping his journey. He's killing me making me wait for his hands, but as his mouth finally makes its way to my own desperately searching lips, he palms one breast over the satin and I arch under him, wordlessly begging for more contact. He breaks off our kiss and his hands reach behind me to unfasten the bra, yet he makes no gesture to remove it, smirking as he lets his hands creep under the fabric to touch skin. My arms finally move as if they have a mind of their own, scraping nails softly down his back before winding my fingers through his hair.

He slides the bra up, giving him access without discarding it, and the straps slide down my shoulders, no longer taut. When his tongue runs over my nipple, I cry out, pulling at his hair in a plea for more... everything.

He removes the bra, but continues with the same slow reverence. His touch is gentle, his progress unbearably deliberate.

I remove my hands from his hair and skim them down his arms, then over to his back, mimicking the same languid pace he is setting. As my hands make their way down his back for the third time, I slide them into the waistband of his briefs, jerking them down in a single move to his knees.

His growl is the best fucking sound I've ever heard.

~ E~

The control it takes me to keep from dragging her to the floor in the kitchen is beyond anything I thought I was capable of, yet I do it. She may not have moved many of her things in, but she is here and buying horrifying pets and hosting dinner parties with bizarre food combinations and all I want to do is show her how happy that makes me. How cherished she is.  
  
I nearly lose it when my hands touch bare thigh and I realize that her lingerie from the Garden Club day debacle has made a reappearance, but I am determined to take charge. I want to lead her, want to show her that there is more to making love than out-of-control table fucks and awkward fumbling. Our sex has been incredible, but I want this to take all night.

The feeling of the silk stockings sliding down her legs, her hardened nipples under my hands, the sound of her throaty whimpers are all conspiring against me to push me to the point of ravishing her. I refuse to lose control like that, but damn it, she's killing me.

When I get to her bra, I'm finally sure that I have a handle on my desire. I feel her soft skin before letting my tongue slide over her. She grinds her hips against me, but the pull of her fingers in my hair brings me back to myself. I have this.

I slide the straps of her bra down her arms and toss it to the floor, leaving her nearly naked before me. I lower my mouth to her, planning to taste every inch of exposed skin before I take this any further; we have all fucking night.

Well, we have all night in my mind. I'm distracted trying to keep track of where I've licked and where I haven't, and the feeling of Bella's hands on my arms and then my back begins to drive me slowly insane. She's copying my pace and I can't stand it; I want her hands on me everywhere, and not these gentle brushes, either.

Focused. Stay focused. Tasting...

Oh fuck. My devious, delightful, devil-inspired girl. I've just made my way back to her breasts, gently scraping my fingers along one while I dart my tongue out along the other, circling everywhere but where she wants me. What does she do? She rakes her nails down my back, grabs the waistband of my fucking boxer briefs, and yanks them to my knees. I have no idea what sound comes out of my mouth, but I am completely fucking lost as my mouth crashes into hers and I yank at her ridiculous satin panties that are doing nothing but getting in my way.

She laughs under me, and I feel the vibration as she shakes with laughter, feeling victorious. Ah, Baby Swan, therein lies your fatal mistake.

I position myself at her entrance, and she's sure that she's won, but now it's a game, and I'm back in the zone. I slide into her so slowly that she cries out, frustrated and demanding at the same time. Balancing on one arm, I stroke her face with my other hand, smoothing her hair back. Her eyes are wild when I first meet them with my own, but she must see the look on my face, because they soften without losing focus. We stay that way, hands brushing skin, bodies gliding together in a slow-motion dance.

I quickly discover that I was wrong; moving in her so slowly should take me hours to climax, yet the emotions I see in her eyes are overwhelming, and it's nearly impossible now to keep my eyes focused on her. I watch her eyelids flicker as well and I know she's getting closer, her hips increasing their pace under me, and still we make no sound. Her neck begins to arch, her head pressing into the mattress, yet still she doesn't break our gaze. Her lips part; her panting comes faster, and I am praying she's there with me when I finally bury my head in her shoulder and thrust one last time, my mouth open in a silent moan. Her body tenses, breath held, before she trembles and whispers my name. I roll us to the side, yanking the comforter over us both, before falling asleep, awash in her love.

~ B~

“Christ on a salsa-covered corn chip, Baby Swan, what the fuck is this?”

Only Rich Kid could wake me up at half-past-zombie in the morning bellowing like this after a night of phenomenally fuckawesome sex. I pop one eye open to see him with a fucking crochet needle and a ball of yarn in his hands.

“Rich Kid, why were you in my bag?”

He stops for a minute, obviously concerned that he's busted, and he fucking well should be. Asstard could have found untoward things in my bag. Like the keys I'm going to gouge his eyes out with if he doesn't stop with the yelling.

“I was looking for your keys, Bella,” he finally confesses.

Aha. He was onto me. Get the keys before waking me up. Smart boy. I knew I loved him for a reason. Too bad he has to keep on yammering.

“I was going to go to your apartment to get some of your things at lunch today, but found this... this... tiny little hat. What the fuck is it?”

Both eyes open but squinting is better. I can focus now. He's holding a crochet needle, part of a hat, and the yarn, which I immediately identify by the bright orange and purple as my most recent project.

“It's a little hat, Edward. You had to wake me up for this?”

“It's a baby hat, Bella.”

His eyes are narrowed and now I get it. Untrusting, loud-ass, demented Miss Hannigan wannabe.

“It's actually a hat for Mr. Horrible, Rich Kid. He looks cold, all naked like that. Poor little guy doesn't even have his parka to keep him warm.”

I try to keep a straight face, but I can see his jaw twitching and the look of terror in his eyes thinking that I'm seriously going to abuse him by making a fucking hat for his dick just because he's circumcised. Someday, he'll understand my humor. I hope.

I roll my eyes before I completely lose it.

“Relax, Rich Kid. You don't have to wear my creations as cock couture. It's a baby hat. I make them for the babies at the NICU when I'm bored and shit.”

He seems confused. “In orange and purple?”

“Yeah, well, some parents are cooler than pastel. You should see the one I made with the little skull pattern...”  
  
He closes his eyes and shakes his head at me. “Are you going to be here all day?” How do I answer this without lying? “Um... I may run some errands this morning, why?” “Do you mind if I get some of your things from your place?”

“Edward, there really isn't anything there I need besides the rest of my clothes, but if you want to rifle through my panty drawer, feel free.”

He seems to hesitate, like he is confused.

“Baby Swan, why don't you want the rest of your things?”

Is he kidding? He wants my home-away-from-flea-market in his place?

“Oh, you know, Edward, it doesn't go with your place. Your mom worked really hard at achieving the look of this place and my junk would totes fuck that all to hell.”

He gives me this weird fucking look and shrugs.

“Well, if it's okay, I'll run over and get some things at lunch. I'll see you later. Call me if you need anything.”

With that, he takes my keys and leaves. Fucking finally. I bolt out of bed and head straight for the shower. He better not have made me late with his emo bullshit this morning. If I'm late for this appointment, all my plans are shot to fucking hell.

Two hours later, I swing myself off the bus in about the most professional-looking outfit I could put together, and that's not saying much. It's a dress, of sorts. Cotton jersey and not too low-cut. I was sorely tempted to wear the Drop Dead shirt, but it was dirty, and on top of that, I'm trying to play nice here. Well, sort of nice. If I'm too nice, nothing is going to get accomplished and so help me, I'm going to get this shit fixed. Enough is enough with the constant dramz and me caught in the middle. People need to get the fuck over themselves, and we are starting that business today.

I'm like the little engine that could or something, chanting to myself “I can do this. I can do this.” Sure I can, if “this” means standing in front of the door fucking talking to myself.

One more deep breath, then I open the door and waltz in like I own the place, presenting myself to the receptionist.

“My name is Isabella Swan, and I have an appointment this morning with Rosalie Cullen.”

~ E~

Thank god Jasper has a pick-up truck. I have no idea why he drives this thing, but at least I can get all of Bella's things to my apartment in one trip. Jasper, of course, is cussing alongside me as we pack up all her things and carry them down to his truck every time we fill a box.

“Edward, remind me again why we need to pack all this shit? I mean, seriously. I doubt there's a charity out there who would take half of it.”

I am wrapping a horrifyingly ugly mermaid figurine when I stop and glare at him.

“Jasper, these are her things. I want her to feel like my apartment is home, and if she leaves everything she owns behind because she is afraid her things don't belong, we are going to be off to a very rough start. Now shut the fuck up and pack.”

Jasper, of course, is never willing to let shit go.

“Edward, I know you got her keys, but do you mind telling me how you got out of the house this morning dressed in ratty old jeans and a t-shirt without her noticing? That doesn't sound like Bella. That girl is as sharp as a tack.”

He's right, and I fucking know that he's right but I don't want to wrap my brain around it. Distracted Baby Swan means Up-to-Something Baby Swan, and that can't be good. I mean, shit. We've had the fugly fish, the jail time... forget it. I'm going to have a panic attack if I even start going down this road.

“Jasper, I have no idea what she's up to. You've seen her in action. she asked if she could get a pet fish and she brought that monstrosity home. I have no clue how her mind works.”

He chuckles. “Maybe she's having a stripper pole installed in your bedroom.”

I swear, my eyes roll back into my head at that thought. The only thing keeping me from an all-out faint is his mumbling.

“So... how are things going with Alice? Any stripper poles appearing in your apartment?”

He freezes. Gotcha, bitch.

“Anything you'd like to share, Jasper? Shit, the night I called you to go out all you talked about was titties and booze. Lately, though... I think the only time I've seen you outside of work not attached to Alice's side is the day Esme dragged Bella to Garden Club.”

His eyes are as big as fucking saucers. Could my friend, Mr. Man-Whore himself, really have fallen this hard for Bella's crazy friend?

“Edward, Jesus. I mean, have you seen her? It's like she is always ten steps ahead of me and I'm just following along behind her. She's had her whole life planned out since she was fucking five years old. I mean, who does that? What five-year-old even knows what a fragrance chemist is, much less wants to be one? It's insane.”

“Do you love her?” I feel guilty asking, but I have to know I'm not the only one who's a complete lunatic right now.

Jasper nods. “Man, when I told her I wanted us to move in together, I felt like a fucking teenaged girl saying it, because it's only been what? A few weeks that we've known these girls? Instead of being shocked or surprised or even happy, she was totally cool and calm and said 'I know, Jasper.' I mean, who does that?”

I'm trying not to laugh because Alice may be just as insane as Baby Swan, but they act like opposites when it comes to guys.

“I'm assuming you said 'I love you' first, then?” I'll try not to mock him for being the teen girl he said he was when he answers.

“Would you believe no? She told me that first fucking night at the club. I mean, what the hell? She said she'd been waiting for me her whole life and everyone else was just an experiment so she'd know me when she saw me. Does that not beat all?”

He gets a half-smile out of me for that one. It beats everything but Baby Swan. Alice may be the psychic, but Baby Swan is the whirling dervish.

“C'mon, Jasper, enough of this hair braiding shit. We need to get into the office and do some fucking work.”

Thirty minutes later, we're sitting in his office, finally dressed for work. Baby Swan was not at my apartment when we got there, which really wasn't much of a surprise, but her laptop was. That means she's out somewhere but not writing, and the tiny bit of fear Jasper put in me has become a big ball of tension in my stomach. Jasper is talking about user surveys about a proposed change to the application platform, and, to  
be honest, I don't give a rat's ass what the users think. I care about where Baby Swan might be and what fucked-up thing she is either doing or bringing back to my—our—apartment.

I'm paying so little attention to anything going on that I fail to be as shocked as I should be when both my assistant and Jasper's assistant burst into his office without so much as knocking.

“Oh, Edward, thank god you're here,” Angela says. “I called all over the building looking for you, and Lauren said the door was shut...”

I'm finally processing that Angela has burst into Jasper's office without warning, out of breath and looking panicked. I'm immediately on my feet, Jasper following me.

“Edward, they need you down in HR. Yesterday,” is all she manages before I take off at a run. My brain is in overdrive. Disgruntled employee with a gun? No... they wouldn't send me down for that. Disgruntled Rosalie with a gun? Now that's a possibility. She is my sister, and some may want me dead for hiring her in the first place.

Ordinarily, I'm faster than Jasper, but my thinking is slowing me down and he passes me in the hallway. He skids to a halt in front of Rosalie's office door, his mouth gaping open, and I'm suddenly afraid. Is Rose hurt? Did something happen to her?

I'm trying to peer around Jasper, and I see a disaster. At least one coffee mug must have hit the wall based on the damp brown stain and the ceramic shards I see on the floor. One of Rosalie's plants is tipped on her desk, with dirt spilled everywhere. Papers are on the floor, wrinkled and dirty as if they've been stepped on again and again. In short, it looks like there was a riot in her office.

I shove Jasper aside trying to get in the door, following the line of his eyes. In the corner of Rose's office, on the floor, sits Baby Swan, her hair in a tangled mess and scratches on her cheek. A bruise is blooming just under her eye, and she appears to be barefoot. That sight alone would be strange enough, but with her on the floor is Rosalie, also disheveled.

Strangest of all, however, is hearing my sister. She is practically on Bella's lap, her hand fisted in Bella's shirt, crying hysterically. Every few sobs she gasps out an

“I'm sorry” and Baby Swan strokes her hair as if Rose is a little girl, cooing and shushing her.

Angela pulls up behind me, stuttering apologetically.

“I'm sorry, Edward. We didn't know what else to do! Rose's assistant said Ms. Swan had an exit interview scheduled for today, and then the next thing she knew, she heard screaming and crashing.”

I feel like I've lost the ability to blink. I murmur my thanks to Angela, and cross over to Bella and Rose reluctantly, crouching down in front of them. Baby Swan, bless her batshit insane heart, actually smiles at me. Rosalie, her make-up streaming down her face, launches herself off Bella and at me.

“Edward, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.” Free of my hysterical sister, Baby Swan stands and brushes herself off, kissing me on the top of my head.

“You two need to talk, Rich Kid. Invite her for dinner if you like. I think we are going to have frozen pot pies tonight.”

She locates her shoes somewhere under Rose's desk, and leaves, Jasper choking on his laughter as she passes him.


	23. There's Pot Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's pot pie. Marie Callender's: the classy kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to MeiSun for bringing up Marie Callender, my very favorite brand of pot pie.

I hop off the bus at the grocery store on the way back to Rich Kid's place. I may have to call Mitt-Mitt from here to get dinner home, but at least this is a start.

Edward has nothing in his kitchen but fresh ingredients. Not a can or a box or a bag to be seen. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that stuff? It's like everyone expects me to be this fucking fantabulous cook and shit all the time because my parents were flakes. Like a seven-year-old becomes a gourmet chef? No, asstards, she learns how to open a can. From whom exactly was I supposed to have learned to cook?

I start at the freezer section, and realize that the flow of traffic here is as bad as the damn art gallery. People mosey along like trained fucking something-or-others.

Why would you possibly want to do produce first? That shit will be crushed under your laundry detergent. I start at the freezer section, since that shit is ice cold and should be buried under other stuff for insulation, and I'm standing in front of the pot pies, debating. Going on the assumption that the glory of a pot pie has never passed the lips of either Rich Kid or his sister, do I start them off slowly with the Banquet or Swanson? Or do I introduce them to the crème de la crème Marie Callender? It takes me a few minutes of deliberation before I decide that Rosalie wouldn't want anything but the best. Marie Callender it is. Plus, this way I only need to get three for Mitt-Mitt instead of five, since they're bigger. He won't want to look like a pig in front of her.

A bag of tater tots and a few pints of Mission to Marzipan later, and I wonder if I need a vegetable. I mean, the pot pies have peas and carrots, right? Rosalie might want a salad, though, so I grab a bag of that and one of those little packet dressings. I'm sure Rich Kid has oil and vinegar, and this way at least the dressing is homemade. Sort of.

I head to the checkout and hit Mitt-Mitt's speed dial as I'm tossing shit on the conveyor.

“Beauty! Rosalie called me right after you left. She was pretty much hysterical. Baby girl, I'm sorry...”

“Emmett, why the fuck are you apologizing? I'm the one who set her off.”

“She did mention that. Exactly what did you say to get her to get all shirty like that, Bella? She may have cold-cocked me at the pageant, but she's not the kind of girl who gets into fist-fights at the office.”

I hesitate, no longer sure where his loyalties lie. “I may have accused her of being classist.”

“Bella...”

“I know, I know. She did think I was after their fucking money, though.” “And she went bonkers at that?”

“Well... no. She went absolutely berzerkers when I accused her of not loving her brother and of wanting him to be so miserable she would undermine anything that made him happy, including me, to make him suffer like she feels she has suffered.”  
  
I can hear his palm hitting his forehead.

“Look, I'm fine. Everyone's fine.”

“But...”

“Mitt-Mitt. Seriously. I'm fine and expecting you and Rosalie for dinner.”

“So I've heard. Is your rich boyfriend having it catered, I hope? I could seriously go for some Beef Wellington or some shit like that. Lobster tail, maybe?”

I roll my eyes. He's fucking kidding me. “Dude! I'm cooking.” He sighs, which I find rude. “What are you cooking?”

“I heard those air quotes around cooking. For your information, we are having pot pies. And a salad.” “What kind of pot pies?

“Are you seriously getting all up in my fucking grill about the pot pies? Jesus Nit-Picking Christ. Turkey. Marie Callender. The big ones.”

“Beauty, you are glorious. So why are you calling me now if I'm supposed to be there for dinner later?”

“I sort of need a ride from the store.”

“Don't you live across the damn street from the store?”

“Uh... not anymore.”

“Bella! Did you get evicted? Why didn't you say anything? You know I can spot you rent money...”

“Slow down. I wasn't evicted. I, uh, sort of moved in with Edward.”

Dead. Fucking. Silence.

“I'll be there in under ten, Beauty, and you better fucking spill.”

True to his word, he's there in seven minutes flat, giving me just enough time to get through the checkout line and pick up the bag of stuff that I drop on my way out the door. He hops out and helps me load the bags in, then takes a good look at how my little altercation with Rosalie Cullen has altered my natural beauty.

“Ah shit, Bella. Damn it, why didn't you tell me it looked this bad? Does that rich boy have shit at his house to take care of this?”  
  
I give him my best “fuck the hell off” look.

“You will not make a big deal about this.”

“I'm going to drop you off and go home. I'm not going to see her anymore. This is ridiculous.”

It's time to pull out the angry mother look. Emmett and Jamie's mom is hell on wheels when she gets pissed, and she taught me everything she knows.

“Beauty, that's awful. Stop. You look like Mom. Just... stop!”

I keep the look going while I make my demands.

“You are going to drive me to Edward's apartment. You are going to eat my fucking pot pies. You are going to be nice to Rosalie. Above all, you are not going to mention a thing about my face or so help me, you will not get to pet Birkin.”

“I'm not petting that fish. You know the government put chips in them to report on your every move, right?”

I learned a long time ago it's best to ignore these types of statements. If I don't, he'll be filleting Birkin on the kitchen counter to find the chip.

“No. Comments. Understood?” “Understood. How many pot pies did you get for me? And what's for dessert?”

~ E~

I want to tear my hair out. Unfortunately, I can't do that until I tear my sister limb from limb, and, quite frankly, I'm a little bit afraid of her, even if Baby Swan did appear to be the one walking away from whatever the hell just went down in her office.

She's still sniffling as she begins setting her office to rights and I'm left sitting in a chair, raking my fingers through my hair and trying to figure out exactly how the fuck to start this conversation. I should have realized that there would be an exit interview required for Bella. I should have asked about it. Most importantly, I should have made sure that the interview wasn't conducted by my obviously insane and violent sister who'd fired Bella in the first place.

What the hell kind of CEO am I?

I bet I open my mouth and close it again a hundred times. What do I say? You're fired, but we'd still like you to come to dinner? I'm telling Mother on you? Maybe I should rat her out to Grandmother Platt. She seems to like Bella quite a bit...

There is no sound at all in Rose's office other than her sniffling and shuffling around as she picks up, yet I know that there are at least four people listening outside the door right now. I'd be shocked if Jasper hasn't tried to procure a drinking glass by now to listen in. It's possible Rose wants to wait until we are out of Jasper's (along with half the company's) earshot before talking about this, so I sit in silence watching her clean and straighten. It's obvious she can't finish out the workday, and I roll my eyes realizing that the company employees must think I've become a total flake since Bella and I got together. Here I am missing another afternoon of work, although this one has to fall on Rosalie's shoulders. I can't believe Baby Swan would start a fist fight at work. She may be eccentric, but she's not insane.

When her office is finally clean enough that you can't tell Rose and Bella played American Gladiators in it, Rosalie packs up her laptop and follows me out. Jasper and the rest of them must have scattered before we emerge, because the only one remaining is Angela, who's earned herself a raise by packing up my laptop and bringing it down to Rose's office. My assistant may, however, have been at least partly motivated by collective employee fear that I'd leave my sister here in the building unsupervised. We arrive at my car, and Rose gets in and waits for me to start driving before she speaks.

“I've been unfair to you, Edward.”

I have no idea what the fuck she's talking about, but judging by her behavior today, I should probably keep my fat mouth shut so she doesn't go all homicidal maniac on me.

“What happened with Father and your mother...” She breaks off at my glare before continuing, “...your birth mother wasn't your fault. Just like what happened with my birth mother wasn't my fault.”

“That's true, Rosalie, but how does that relate to you being unfair to me?”

“I've been a complete bitch to you for your entire life because I resented you. I think that I blamed you for a lot of what happened between our parents, when in reality, you were as much a victim as I was. Possibly even more, since you had to grow up coping with me.”

“That's not true.”

“It is, and you know it. My brief periods of sister-like activity don't make up for the way I've treated you.”

“So fighting with Baby Swan was your way of apologizing?”

“I should never have tried to do her exit interview myself. I couldn't resist the opportunity to run her off, though. I mean, Edward, seriously. You give her a job. You move in with her for all intents and purposes, and then after I think I've finally gotten rid of her by firing her, you move in with her for real. What was I supposed to think about her intentions? You've never so much as brought a girl home with you, and suddenly you bring home this crazy person, shack up with her, and do everything but give her the keys to the castle.”

I'm deadly quiet when I answer her, “You were supposed to think your brother might be a good judge of character.”

I glance over and see that she's biting her lip, thinking before she answers. It's about time she started thinking, so I let her try out the feeling of doing it.

“I was wrong, Edward, and I know that. I saw what I wanted to see, and heard what I wanted to hear. She doesn't give a shit about your money, does she?”

I laugh, but it's a tense laugh, with no joy.  
  
“She's serving frozen pot pies—whatever the hell those are—for dinner tonight. Does that tell you anything about her? She threw a dinner party last night to celebrate moving in and served Jasper and his girlfriend something called Beans 'n Weenies. I'd say she doesn't care much about the money.”

“I'm sorry I fired her.”

“So am I, Rose. She's a fantastic writer and now we are going to have to pay her freelance rates to get her to work on the docs.”

It's her turn to laugh now, and the tension eases up a tiny bit.

“She'd be right to sue me, and the company, you know.”

“She won't.”

“How do you know that? How can you just be so damn sure of her?”

“I just do, and I can't explain it. We'll walk into the apartment and she'll ask you if you want to pet her fish and she'll give you a huge hug like you've never been anything but kind to her. That's how she is.”

I expect more doubt, but even my sister can do the unexpected once in a while. “Pet her fish?”

I smile, finally knowing my sister and I will end up okay, and she'll probably end up great friends with Baby Swan like everyone else has.

“We okay now, Rose?”

“Provided your girlfriend will forgive me for pitching a mug of coffee at her and then jumping her like I was some gangbanger? Yeah, Mr. Horrible, we're okay.”

She gasps when she realizes what she's said. “Shit, Edward, I'm sorry!”

“Don't worry about it. That nickname from you stuck. For your information, however, Bella has assured me that it's pretty fucking awesome.”

We park and she comes around the car to hug me before we walk in. Baby Swan: miracle worker.

~ B~

Mitt-Mitt is asking for newspaper to cover the fish tank when Rich Kid and Bitch Sis arrive. Rosalie and I have come to an accord; she knows that I'm not out for money, and I know she's got a lot of issues that could benefit from a fuckton of psychiatric help and probably some pharmacological assistance on top of that.

Pot pies and tater tots are in the oven, perfectly timed. I have a bottle of Patron on the table for most of us, plus some bottle of Australian wine I bought because I liked the label. It's white and I think white is supposed to go with pot pies. Or at least white meat, which is pushing it when it comes to pot pie meat, but seeing as I splurged on the Callenders, hopefully it goes together. Salad has been dumped in a bowl, and I even bought some of those grape tomatoes, which I tried. They don't taste anything like grapes, so I don't quite get the point, but it looks like I gave a shit about a vegetable. I'm trying to make nice, for Rich Kid as well as Mitt-Mitt, but shit. Pot pies. I should have gotten take-out. I'm going to blow this, and Edward is going to get even more pissed off that he must already be after the fight.  
I'm wicked nervous about Rosalie being here. When I think to look at her, though, she's just as nervous as I am, so I walk over to where she's lingering in the doorway.

“Thanks for coming, Rosalie. I'm really glad you did. Would you like to meet Birkin?”

She recognizes the name, but not the concept, and follows me over to the tank where... Jesus Martha Stewart Christ, Rich Kid has been redecorating? The cheesy mermaid Jamie bought me at a thrift shop is in the goddamned tank. Rolling my eyes wondering what else he's done, I open the top of the aquarium, hoping maybe Rosalie will want to pet him.

“You know, if you stick your hand in there, he'll swim up and you can pet him.”

She looks at me dubiously, but she must really want to make an effort, too, because she sticks her hand into the open top and waits. Sure enough, Birkin swims right up.

“What the ever-loving fuck was that?” Rosalie yells. That mofo just spit a rock at her. Not a great first impression there, Birkin.

“Oops,” I apologize, and reach in to haul the mermaid out. As I'm doing it, the stupid fish tries to take a fucking bite out of my hand and then spits more rocks for good measure.

“Sorry about that, Rosalie, seriously. Your brother obviously doesn't know much about Oscars.”

“Did that... thing... spit at me?”

Sho 'nuff did there, Bitch Sis.

“See, Oscars get a wee bit pissed off if you fuck with their habitat. They'll, er, rearrange, if you upset the sitch that they like.”

“I need to wash. Do you have any disinfectant, Edward?”

She takes off toward the bathroom, and I'm kicking myself. This probably can't go much worse, but there's still a lot of time left in the evening. I turn to Emmett.

“Dude, is she always like this? She seems a little high-maintenance.”

I must be an idiot. I'm trying to talk to a man who is ripping apart old issues of National Geographic and taping them to the fish tank. I smack his hand so he'll stop destroying Edward's stuff.

“Jesus, leave the goddamned fish alone. It doesn't want to be looking at floppy titties any more than I do. Go deal with your girlfriend.”

I finally make my way over to Rich Kid for a hug, but then the damn timer goes off and I have to get dinner. By the time Rosalie undergoes whatever decontamination process she has deemed necessary after having fish rocks spit on her, we're ready to eat. I've placed the salad in a pretty bowl I found, and have the dressing already in it. Tater tots are in another bowl, and I have the pot pies on a platter.

Emmett immediately helps himself, but Edward and his sister hang back. I grab one, flip the mofo over, and wiggle the little tin to get it out. Rich Kid follows suit, but Rosalie looks horrified. I give Emmett a panicked look, and he dumps one upside-down on her plate, smacking it so the crust rips and the insides spew all over the tater tots I've helpfully added to her plate.

She looks like she's about to hurl, but I feel Rich Kid's leg move next to me, and he must kick her in the shin because she tells him to fuck off and then forks up a mouthful of pot pie. She's just about tasted it when Emmett opens his mouth.

“Do you know that a single pot pie has over 900 calories, 60 grams of fat, and a whole fucking day's worth of sodium?”

Now it's my turn to kick him as Rosalie's fork clatters to her plate.

“Yes, you stupid fucker, that's why they taste so damn good. Maybe you shouldn't eat three then, eh?” I ask as I kick him.

“Maybe I'll stick to the salad,” Rosalie suggests. I can tell Edward is winding up to kick her again when Emmett breaks in.

“Aw, come on, baby. Beauty knew you'd need cheering up, so she made one of our favorite comfort foods to make you feel better. It's not like you have anything to worry about. You could eat ten of these a day and still be smokin' hot.”

I expect Bitch Sis to haul off and punch him again. I also know from personal experience this morning that she has a mean hair-pulling move and her nails scratch like cat claws. Instead, though, she smiles at him, brushes his arm, and starts forking up pot pie like it's fucking caviar. I look over at Rich Kid and he's staring as well.

It's kind of crazy watching my world intersecting with his. Too bad it's a lot like watching The Twilight Zone when it involves his sister.

~ E~

My sister. Is eating. Frozen pot pies.

The strangest part is that she really seems to be enjoying the pot pies, but it may have something to do with her bizarre relationship with Bella's friend Emmett. The man is so out there he thinks the fish, ugly as that thing is, has something to do with a government plot. He refers to Rosalie as “smokin' hot” and she smiles like he compared her to the Hope Diamond. The most disturbing thing of all, however, is that this latest development seems to have knocked the unshakeable Baby Swan for a loop.

I have no idea what she'd been expecting to happen tonight, but this obviously wasn't it. The rest of us maintain a conversation throughout dinner, but she doesn't participate, sitting quietly and playing with her dinner until everyone seems finished, then clearing the plates silently.

She returns from the kitchen with a carafe of coffee and four pints of that almond-stuffed ice cream she loves, handing each of us our own pint and a spoon, along with coffee cups. Rosalie peeks at the nutrition label and then addresses Baby Swan.

“It says there are four servings.”

Bella looks right at her and points her spoon. “Bitch Sis, if you can stop after eating one-fourth of that container, I will move out of your brother's apartment tonight and never speak to anyone in your family again.”

I gasp. She can't be serious. She has no idea how stubborn and determined my sister can be. I don't think I've ever seen her lose a dare or a bet. She's simply too competitive. It may kill her, but she'll win.

Everyone else puts their spoon down to watch as my sister begins eating. “Is that... marzipan?” she asks.

Baby Swan nods and I see her lips quiver as if she's trying not to laugh. A few seconds later, Rosalie speaks again.

“Are these almond cookies or biscotti?”

“You know,” Bella replies, “I'm really not sure. I think they are a bit too chewy to be biscotti, but they aren't as chewy as those almond cookies you can get at the Italian bakery downtown, you know?”

Rosalie nods and continues spooning in ice cream, and I see Bella sitting up straighter and straighter as she watches my sister's spoon scraping around the edge of the container and poking into the middle to dig out a particularly large bit of marzipan or cookie.

Finally, Bella takes a sip of her coffee, and tilts back in her chair, a look of smug satisfaction on her face. “So Rosalie, what were you saying about the suggested serving size?”

Emmett peers into my sister's pint and lets out a laugh so loud Baby Swan nearly tips her chair over. I have to grab her before she cracks her head on the floor.

“It's empty!” he yells, and Bella giggles. “Rich Kid, did you seriously think I would have bet something like that if I didn't think I could win?”

After the dessert showdown, we sit around watching that monstrous fish for a while, and the conversation takes a more relaxed tone. Everyone seems comfortable with everyone else, with all the tension gone. Before it gets too late, Emmett mentions he has a deadline in the morning and offers to drive Rosalie home, which I assume is code for “let's go to one of our places and fuck like bunnies” if the looks they are giving each other are any indication.

Bella and I walk them to the door. Rosalie hugs Bella first and then me, and before she walks out, she whispers in my ear,

“I'd never have let her lose that bet. Even if that ice cream hadn't been so delicious.”

I hug her closer before she breaks away and leaves hand-in-hand with Emmett. Bella sighs and starts toward the kitchen before I grab her from behind and swing her around.

“I have no idea what sort of fucked-up voodoo you are working on my family, but I think I like it. Leave the damn dishes for the cleaning lady and let me make slow, sweet love to you.”

She's giggling as I carry her back to the bedroom and dump her on the bed, which now has her tie-dye fleece throw in the middle of it. When her hands touch it, she looks, and then frowns.

“Edward, why is all my shit here? I thought we agreed I was just bringing my clothes and CDs and not all my junk. Didn't we?”

That's it. I'm done. I'm officially done. This has been an absolute bitch shitter of a day, from manual labor in the morning to a fist fight in my human resources department to fucking betting on our relationship over ice cream.

“Bella, I'm only going to ask this question one more time. Do you not want to be with me? Because all the poking and the hiding and the not wanting your stuff here and the little things like frozen pot pie for my sister seem designed to annoy me. While they aren't annoying me, it seems apparent that you are—either consciously or unconsciously—trying to drive me away. Why are you so fucking afraid?”

I'm not entirely sure I want her to answer me.


	24. There's a Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a ring.

Damnit. Hadn't the man just promised me slow, sweet loving or some shit like that? Now he's getting all accusatory and emo. Looks like I'm not getting laid tonight.

“Rich Kid, do I need to break out the Midol? I fail to understand why me not wanting my trash cluttering up your fucktabulous apartment means I don't want to be with you.”

He fucking explodes. I mean, like I expect his head to just poof in front of me like a popcorn kernel.

“You don't want your stuff here! You don't want to work for me! You do everything in your power to piss people off under the guise of being eccentric and quirky! I'm not entirely sure if you want things to go off as well as they seem to, or if you're secretly hoping someone is going to snap and kill you.”

What the fuck? Where is this bitchsplosion coming from?

“Rich Kid, did someone put angel dust in your corn flakes this morning or something? What's gotten into you? I think I've been doing a bang-up job here. You seem to be talking to your sister more, with less arguing. Your grandmother seemed to have a fuckawesome time the other night. Everyone is getting along, aren't they?”

“Actually, everyone seems to be getting along great, Bella,” he spits, “except for the two people who are supposed to be getting along with you. I'm one, and Jamie is the other. Now, I'm not making any sort of excuse for his behavior, because I sure as hell don't understand his demented possessiveness, but I really need to know why you are pushing me away at every turn.”

“I'm not... I don't... Why do you think that?” I'm truly stunned here. Is this really what he thinks?

“It's like you don't want to belong,” he finally admits, looking completely defeated.

Bloody. Buggering. Hell. I don't even know where to go with this. He really thinks everything I'm doing is deliberate sabotage. Either he thinks I'm way craftier than I am, or he thinks I'm so batshit insane I've been doing it subconsciously. I'm not sure which is worse.

“I was trying,” I whisper. I don't think he'll believe me anyway.

I don't want to be here. I can't be here. I take off running, and am out of his apartment, down the stairs, and outside before I realize I don't have a fucking place in the world to go.

I wander over to a bus stop. They have the nice ones here, with the covered benches. There's no graffiti on them like the shelters near my old apartment, and I cop a squat. I need to think. Fuck. I left my laptop in the apartment, as well as my fucking bag, so I also have no money. Not that I could get on a bus barefoot in any case.

Still, it would be nice to have some fucking options here.

Screw it. I lay down on my back on the bench and stare up at the utter lack of cobwebs. Damn. Rich neighborhoods definitely have it better. They don't even have cobwebs in their bus shelters. Someone must clean them out here.

Did I really want to live somewhere that gets its bus shelters cleaned?  
  
I think about everything we said a few minutes ago, and realize it isn't much. Typical. We never seem to talk for very long about things that are important, like why I wasn't bringing my things, or where we saw this relationship going or what we want out of life. That's probably the shit we should be talking about.

Thing is, if we start talking, I'm afraid we'll find this is all chimera. He may want kids of his own to make up for his own fucked-up origins. I mean, he's 23 years old. He's been on this road to success his whole fucking life. What if he decides he wants to cut loose at some point? Blow all this shit off and go backpacking across Europe, or start boozing or clubbing with Granny Platt? What if he suddenly wants to be the irresponsible lay-about he's totes never been and just wallow around in his own filth all day, blowing off work and smoking a hookah?

I've done all that. I'm tired of the kitsch and the queens and the out-all-night drinking and sitting at The Royal.

I want to try being a grown-up for a change. I want to learn how to cook Rich Kid dinners for real, out of fresh ingredients. I want a bedspread that matches the drapes in the bedroom, and towels that match the shower curtain. I want someone to teach me how to do all this shit that my damn parents should have taught me, so I can be the person Edward really needs in his life instead of the quirky girl who's fun for a while, but he can't take to the company Christmas party.

I'm not sure how long I lay there on the bench, but I figure out he must have run out after me when I hear him calling my name. I don't answer. He doesn't think to look in the bus shelter, so I lay here, not calling out to him. I'm not sure that I want him to find me.

Maybe it's better for both of us if he doesn't.

~ E~

I stand here, shocked, for just a minute too long, because she's out the door faster than I can catch her. It's important, though. I know that waiting here for this minute is important. Why?

I was trying.

How could I have been so stupid? Of course she's trying. She left nearly everything she owned behind to move in with me. She quit temping. Quit dressing Jamie. Hosted not one, but two dinners in the two days she's been here. They may not have been haute cuisine, but she was making an attempt, and if she's been using her eccentric brand of culinary humor to cover the fact that she hadn't been taught all the niceties of socializing, who am I to judge?

What's more important to me? Her things, or her? The answer is obvious to me, but maybe it isn't to her. I want all of her. I want every part of her. Maybe, though, I've been focused on the physical and not paying attention to the important things, which sure as shit aren't saris on the windows.

I race down to the street to find her, but she seems to have vanished. I call her name, hoping she's hiding behind a car or sitting behind a tree, but I hear nothing, and return to the entrance to my building, defeated.

I was trying.  
  
Yes, she was, but I was, too. The problem is we weren't trying together, and now I need to find her, to talk to her, to ask her what she wants and figure out what I want, and how we can have both of those things together. I sit here, wracking my brain for where she might have gone. Emmett and Rosalie just left together, so she wouldn't have called Emmett. Jasper and Alice? Would she have called them to come get her?

I'm banging my phone into my forehead when I see bare feet in front of me on the sidewalk. It takes me a second to realize that the toenail polish is a different color on every single toenail, and I snap my head up.

“I needed to think by myself for a little while,” she explains.

I'm dying to stand up and sweep her into my arms, but this is a fork in the road and I can't force her to take the direction I want. We have to figure this out together.

“I was calling you. Why didn't you answer?” What was that? Am I applying for martyrdom? “I heard. I didn't want you to find me, though. I figured out pretty quick that I needed to find you.”

I stare at her blankly. Is this some sort of philosophical explanation, or was she stuck behind some form of magic that kept her from me? Shake it off, Cullen.

She bites her lip like she's thinking. “Can we sit right here, Edward? I'm not ready to go back up to the apartment.”

The apartment. Not our apartment. At least she hasn't said “your apartment.” I sit and gesture for her to take a seat next to me on the small half-wall I've been sitting on.

“Edward, why did you bring all my crap to your apartment?”

It's a curious place to start, but at least I have a response. “There's a simple answer, Bella. I wanted you here. All of you. From your fucked-up monster slippers to the ugly mermaid to your not-safe-for-work t- shirts. It's you. I want it to feel like it's your home, too.

“The real question, though, is why didn't you want your things here?”

She hesitates before she answers. “I think... part of it was that I didn't want to mess up your place with my crap. The other part, though... maybe I'm just ready to start growing up.”

“You got that heinous fucking fish, Bella.”

“Birkin has nothing to do with growing up. Fish are a perfectly responsible adult-type of pet for apartment dwellers.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine. Birkin is a little weird for a pet. I still want to be me, Edward. Just... with less circus atmosphere surrounding me.”

“Do you want to get married?”

She blanches whiter than flour, and I realize she thinks I'm proposing in the middle of our drama at the front entrance of our apartment building. I backpedal. Quickly.

“Shit, Bella. I'm not asking you right this second. Fuck. No. I mean, not that I don't want to, but I'd never... shit, no. Not like this. I'd do it... right. Or, at least, right-for-us-right. Christ on a cruller. I am doing this all wrong. I mean, where do you see us in the future? Do you even see a future?”

Obviously, our choice of setting for this conversation is beyond poor, because people walking by start to stare as Bella bursts into loud, gasping sobs. I pat her back gently, hoping that the gawkers see me as concerned boyfriend instead of “man causing distress to sobbing young woman.” I stand, and attempt to pull her by the elbow toward the door, but of course, with the hysterical crying it doesn't look good and people are starting to approach us now.

“Bella?” I whisper. “Bella, can you help out here? People think I'm about to beat you or something.”

She finally stands, and throws herself at me, knocking me off balance. My arms flail so much I'm surprised I don't see Don Quixote on his horse in front of us, but I finally right myself and hug her back, nudging her toward the doorman, who's been watching our entire scene with far more interest than is polite.

I half-carry her to the elevator, as she's still sobbing and clutching my neck. I'm not sure how I'm going to get any sort of coherent conversation out of her, but at least we'll be inside and I won't need to worry about getting arrested any time soon.

When we finally make it into the apartment, I get her to the bedroom and pry her fingers from my neck. I manage to push her toward the bed while I dig through drawers and boxes until I find what I'm looking for. Tossing her ratty Jack Skellington pajama pants at her, I locate a somewhat matching shirt that also features her favorite movie character, this one saying “Bone Daddy.” I snort, realizing I just half-proposed to a woman whose wardrobe consists mostly of homage to an animated skeleton, and then turn to toss the shirt at her.

Of course, turning around is my fatal error. She's stripped down to her underwear: pale pink cotton with a matching bra and she looks so lost and innocent with her wet, red eyes and her tangled hair I lose all train of thought. What were we supposed to be talking about anyway?

~ B~

Okay, so maybe I'm insane. I mean, I was just out on the street crying my fool face off. I'm surprised no one called the cops at my hysterics, but the mere idea that Edward has been thinking about marrying me has me absolutely speechless. If I had the power of speech, I'd be able to tell him that pajamas go on shirt first, not pants first. Instead, I stand waiting for him to fix it since he handed me the pants first.

Once he turns around, though, I'm pretty sure that any idea of putting the pajamas on has gone right out the window. I see the look in his eyes, and he's striding toward me before he even knows what he's doing.

Trouble is, we aren't done with our conversation, and this talk is some serious fucking business that needs to take place. So I do what any smart girl would do when standing in her undies being stalked by Edward Fucking Cullen the Not-Quite-Second. Or you know, not: I scamper away from him, clambering onto the bed and arming myself with a big-ass pillow.

“Baby Swan? What are you doing?”

The tone of voice should scare me, and I see we are back to Baby Swan from Bella. Serious business talk has flown right out of his head along with the blood flow, apparently.

“Edward!” I totes pull out Mama McCarty's scolding tone. “We're having a talk here.”

“No, Bella,” he corrects. “We were having a talk, until you decided to strip down to pink fucking underwear. Pink! We'll talk later.”

I jump off the bed, and manage to get past him into the living room area, making a mental note that guys can't run very well with erections. He nearly catches me there, but I vault over the loveseat, knocking it over with my fuckawesome grace, and end up across the kitchen island from him. By now, he looks positively feral, and I burst out laughing, rubbing my shin where I banged it into the cupboard on my way around the island.

“Edward,” I choke out, my mama voice completely obliterated by my laughter. “We are going to talk. We are not going to have sex. You are going to wait here. I'm going to put my pajamas on. I will call you when I'm ready.”

Rat bastard doesn't listen to a damn thing I said, but with all that blood flow diverted, I manage a feint and weave and slam into the bedroom, locking the door behind me. His body thuds against the door mere seconds later, and I giggle as I pull on the shirt, then pants. I add my hoodie for good measure, along with a sloppy ponytail, hopefully assembling a libido killer outfit extraordinaire.

I open the door to find him standing there, looking at me plaintively. He runs his fingers through his fuckhot messy hair and my resolve slips a tiny bit. Not enough, though, because we'll end up right back where we started, and now that I'm in my jammies, I really don't want to be hiding out in a bus shelter.

I'm wary, but he takes a step toward me and pulls me to him, burying his face in my hair before kissing my forehead.

“I'm sorry, Bella. You're right. We need to talk. Promise you'll keep those pink panties hidden, will you?”

I make a huge show of crossing my heart before sitting on the bed, folding my legs into lotus position, only because I know it freaks him out.

“Continue, please, Edward.”

He shakes his head. “No, it's your turn. I was asking you where you saw us heading before the sobfest and chase scene.”

I can't help it. I giggle.

“Bella, seriously. Why were you crying?”  
  
It takes me a minute to compose myself before I can answer.

“I ran out of here, and I know it was stupid and childish, but I needed to get my head on straight. So I'm laying there on the bench...”

“What bench?” “In the bus shelter.” “What bus shelter?”

See,this is how we derail. My gut instinct is to point out that he's so fucking rich he doesn't even notice that there is a primo bus stop right in front of his face. He's never taken the damn bus in his life, so he doesn't even notice it's there. Focus, Bella.

“Screw the bus shelter, Rich Kid. It doesn't matter. I'm there on the bench, and I'm wondering if you aren't going to get tired of me. If you won't wake up one morning and decide you want kids of your own or a wife who'll do great at dinner parties with your board of directors. I won't ever be able to be that person for you.”

His eyes soften, and he runs his fingers along the side of my face, pushing my hair behind my ear.

“Bella, none of that is important. Do you really think I'd rather have someone who's good at meaningless small talk and as a baby-making factory, than someone I have fun with and laugh with and can't wait to talk to every second we're apart? What matters is the everyday shit. If we decide at some point we want kids, then we'll figure out how to get them. And I'm not worried about any damn parties. What I want is you, not the bullshit that everyone looks at like a fucking picture. You.”

I'm sniffling, and thinking to myself it's a damn shame he isn't proposing right now because that's about the most romantic thing anyone's ever said.

“Edward, just... guh. That's all. Guh.” “You haven't told me what you want.”

“The same thing, you dork. Why do you think I left all my shit behind? I didn't need any of it anymore. I had you.”

Jesus Hallmark Christ we are two of the sappiest fucks ever. Which is why we cap off this totes romantical conversation by snuggling in bed. I'm propped up on pillows, and he's leaning back against me. There's some long-ass Doctor Who marathon on Sci-Fi and we debate which doctor was better as I run my fingers through his hair. I could stay exactly like this for the rest of my life.

~ E~

I wake up in the morning with a stiff neck, still sprawled across Baby Swan. I'd fallen asleep with her fingers gently brushing my scalp, and decide there is no better way to fall asleep. In fact, I want to fall asleep exactly like that for the rest of my life. In order to do that, however, I'm going to need to propose to her for real, and that means one thing.  
  
I need to brave the cave of the dragon.

I rush through my shower and dressing, hoping like hell I don't wake Bella before I can sneak out. I have a phone call to make.

I'm scrolling through my contact list trying to find the number when I remember that I have this one listed under 666. It makes more sense that way. She answers on the first ring.

“I have that CallerID thing on my phone, boy. Why would you be calling me at such an unholy hour of the morning?”

This is a trick question. I'm fairly certain she sleeps only an hour a night, and that is done hanging from the ceiling beams in her house by her claws, so I couldn't have woken her. However, she still abides by some societal convention that dictates you don't call anyone before the magical hour of ten in the morning, so I need some sort of emergency excuse.

“Grandmother, I was hoping to catch you before I went into work for the day. I generally try to get there before the rest of the staff...”

“That shows a good work ethic, boy. Lets your people know you are watching them as well. Smart.” Bingo. Although I'm shocked at the compliments, I still have to gain entry. Finesse is a complicated skill. “The last time we spoke, Grandmother, you indicated you may have something you'd like me to have...” I trail off, waiting for her to figure it out.

“I have nothing I want you to have, boy. You may come for lunch today. At noon. Not a second later.”

She hangs up as I reach my car and I speed into work as if I can make the morning go by faster if I get there sooner. Instead, minutes seem like hours, and I end up leaving the office at 11:15, getting me to my lunch appointment a full 15 minutes early. Luckily, the woman views my early arrival as eagerness to spend time with her, and admits me.

She engages in the very type of small talk Baby Swan is so damn worried about until we're done with lunch, at which point, she opens the floor for the real conversation.

“Edward, you are here because you want something. What is it?”

I gulp, hoping she wasn't so drunk when she made the offer that she doesn't remember making it.

“Grandmother, I think we both know why I'm here. I'll be blunt; I'm honored you'd even consider letting me have your ring for Bella. At the same time, I debated whether it would be appropriate, all things considered. But in the end, I think it would mean even more to my mother for Bella to have it as her engagement ring.”

She narrows her eyes at me, peering at me like the suspicious old bat that she is. “You'd better be talking about my Esme when you say 'mother,' boy.”  
  
I straighten up, meeting her evil stare. Baby Swan has closed most of this gaping hole that my entire family has been skirting around for years. I need to finish the job.

“She is the only mother I will ever have, and I think it's time you figure that out.”

“You don't deserve her, you know.”

“Which one?” I counter.

She cackles, and I have visions of her standing over a cauldron reciting Shakespeare's lines.

“Really, you don't deserve either one of them, but I meant that Bella. She's a sharp one. Why is she wanting to get mixed up with the likes of you?”

Thanks for the opening, you fossilizing harpy. “She says she's only with me for my family.”

Her expression changes, and her eyes grow soft. She pulls the ring from her finger, then takes my hand, placing the ring in my palm and folding my fingers around it.

“When your grandfather gave me this ring, Edward, I swore I'd never love another as long as I lived. I've outlived him now by over twenty years, but I'll never break that promise. You make sure you do the same with that young Bella.”

My eyes were watery as I hugged my grandmother for perhaps the first time. “Now get out of here, boy. Go do whatever it is you do with that perverted porn company you run.”

I was almost out the door before I heard her call softly, “And bring that girl 'round here once in a while, won't you?”

Yes, Granny Platt, I most certainly will.


	25. There's a Beater and Docs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a non-politically-correct-named clothing item and a pair of my favorite boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to manyafandom for the Chucks inspiration, jennifer_lyn215 for the suggestion of my very favorite Food Network show, the trainwreck that is Semi Homemade.

Rich Kid hied off to some “important meeting” at lunch so I'm left to my own devices, staring at a computer screen with a blank NeoOffice document open. I don't have the heart to tell him I've written five smutty one-shots and not a single fucking word of my alleged novel.

Actually, come to think of it, I have a title for it. I'm going to call it Blank.

Fuck. I need some inspiration. I look at Birkin, but he's eyeballing me. Great. I'm having a staring contest with a fish. I grab my bag to leave the apartment. When I start having staring contests with the fish, it's time to get out and see some people. First, however, I grab one of Rich Kid's running shoes he's so helpfully left by the door. After our big heart-to-heart where he offered the emo declaration of needing more of my shenanigans in his life, I decided his wardrobe needed a wee bit of an overhaul. We can consider it an early birthday present.

Once I'm out of the apartment and walking, I start people-watching, which could eat up my entire day if I let it. In high school, I'd often tag along when people wanted to go to the mall, but I'd park myself on a bench and watch people while my friends dropped off their shopping bags. I've always loved making up stories about people that I see, and maybe today I'll get some inspiration for Blank. First, however, shoes.

I don't know what the fuck Edward was thinking, but the man owns nothing but running shoes and a pair of Crocs. I mean, what fucking man in his right mind wears Crocs? Exactly. And he wears the running shoes with his khaki nerdrobe.

I have my ridiculous paycheck from working for him to spend, so first things first: the man needs decent shoes. And jeans. And Jesus Pret-a-porter Christ, some t-shirts, but those I can get online. The shoes, not so much. A pair of Doc boots and two pairs of Chucks later (black: one lo, one hi until he finds his groove), I'm done with shoes and move onto jeans and a fuckhot textured black button-down I find at Banana Republic of all places.

I hop the bus home, and lay my spoils out on the bed, grabbing my laptop and plopping down on his ridiculously huge sofa in front of the flat screen. We're doing take-out for dinner, damn it, until I figure out this whole cooking with non-frozen items crap. When Rich Kid finally comes home with the pizza I've demanded via text message, he finds me in the kitchen, looting his cupboards, while watching TV over the island. I may or may not be drinking Patron.

“Bella?”

He's got one eyebrow cocked as he looks back and forth between me and the flat screen. I take the pizza and set it on the counter, kiss him hello, but keep my eyes on the screen at all times.

“Bella, what the fuck are you watching?”  
  
“Edward, shush, will you? I need to find out how to put the tablescape together. I bought you some shit today, so go back in the bedroom and check it out while I see if you have any canned crabmeat and stuffed olives in here.”

Another shot of Patron and I'm taking copious notes on how to put the tablescape together, putting a reminder in my phone to pick up a hot glue gun when Rich Kid comes out of the bedroom. He's wearing a pair of distressed jeans I picked up today, my Strong Bad t-shirt, and Christ on a Crabmeat Cucumber Round, the Doc Marten boots.

I fucking knock the box of pizza to the floor and take a step back.

“Baby Swan? There seem to be several clothing-type purchases on my bed. Is there a message there for me?”

I take another step back.

“Do you not like how I dress? Do you have a problem with dress shirts?”

“N-n-no?”

“My Crocs seem to be missing.”

I take another step back, thankful I carried that trash bag right out to the dumpster. I can play dumb, I think, but he keeps coming toward me, so maybe not?

“I haven't seen them.”

“Bella, I think you're lying. I have three new pairs of shoes and two pairs of Crocs are missing.”

“I put everything on the bed.”

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees. “Jeans? You don't like khakis?”

Another step back.

“I thought you might like something more casual for going out, or weekends.”

“And this, Bella?”

He yanks my t-shirt over his head and reveals one of the wife-beaters I bought him. Ungh. I forget to move backward as he advances, stepping over the pizza box.

“Is this something I should wear out?”

He stops and my eyes go from messy hair, skipping past his face, which may still be angry about the Crocs, to the scoop of the beater, where I see fine chest hair peeking over the top, to the low-slung jeans, to the boots, which he hasn't seen fit to tie. No, this is not something he should wear out. Never. No one else should be allowed to see anything this fuckhot in the wild. He might burn out their eyes like staring at the sun.  
  
“If-if you like?”

Another two steps and he's so close he's nearly touching me. I can feel his warm breath on my neck an instant before I feel his mouth there. “Do you not like how I look, Bella?” he whispers against me.

How the hell am I supposed to answer him? Of course I like how he... licks me? Yes, yes, I do. I like how he licks my neck.

“Yes, Edward, I do like how you lick my neck.”

He laughs, and I feel the hum against my skin when he does. I want to ask him what's so funny, but I can't remember a damn thing.

~ E~

I'm peeling off her clothes slowly as I walk her backward to the couch. The bedroom is too damn far away right now, and I can't afford even a few seconds' delay if I'm going to keep myself from attacking her. The ring from Grandmother Platt is hidden in my underwear drawer, which I know Baby Swan refuses to go near for fear of “catching boy cooties.” Its presence in the apartment is overwhelming, and reminds me that this is the woman I plan to marry, to spend the rest of my life with, and I need to remember to treat her with respect. I need to worship her, not fuck her.

I lay her back on the couch and remove my own clothes, knowing that even the slightest touch from her would kill me. I need every ounce of control today. I joked about her dressing me, but looking at the things she'd gotten me... I'd never have purchased these boots for myself. Ever. Putting them on, though, I can see this is how she views me. In my head, I'm the nerd in the khakis with the pocket protector who gets the girl only when she views me as some sort of challenge. In Baby Swan's mind, though, I can apparently look the part of the bad boy: the one who would wear the black boots and wife beater and probably walk around with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. I can't show her enough times how much I love her and how amazed I am that she thinks I'm worthy of her.

I slowly lower myself over her, worrying that I sound like a fucking Caveman. I moan at the feel of her skin against mine and bite my lip to keep from plowing into her. Or worse. I already know she was disgusted taking me in her mouth, but maybe it was just the...

Stop, Edward. Enough. Making love. Focus.

I stroke her arms gently, then the sides of her breasts as she whimpers and squirms under me, testing my resolve. I have to keep my mind on one thing at a time. Right now, that one thing is the feel of her soft skin, not the wetness between her thighs.

I shift my hands to her jaw, skimming her cheeks before leaning in for a soft, open-mouthed kiss when she turns her head away from me, pushing at my chest at the same time.

“Bella?”

She skitters out from under me, and pulls her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs, which is not helping, since she fails to realize this position shows off, well, the crotch of her horribly innocent cotton panties. I drag my eyes back up to her face and she looks... hurt?

“Edward, do you not find me attractive?”

“Of course I do! You're beautiful!” How can she think this?

“That's not what I mean. Do you not find me... sexually attractive?”

Now I know she's kidding me. I've been doing everything in my power to keep from bending her over the damned couch and she thinks I don't find her sexually attractive?

“Don't give me that fucking dinosaur sigh, Edward. I want to know.”

“Look at me! Do I not look sexually aroused to you?”

She bites her lip, which means she's thinking. Which means I'm royally screwed.

“It's just that...”

I stare straight at her. Do not close your eyes. Do not close your eyes just because you want to roll them at whatever craziness she's going to spew...

“I want you to fuck me.”

Say what?

“I want you to fuck me. With the boots on.”

The boots are across the room with the rest of my clothes. And wait, what?

“And the jeans.”

Now I know she's gone round the bend. She's not eccentric; she's fucking certifiable.

“So let me make sure I have this right, Bella. You want me to put the jeans back on, as well as the boots. And, using your words, 'fuck you' while wearing same?”

“Not exactly.” “Not exactly?” “Can you put them back on and maybe I could... show you?”

Now, here's the part where I'm supposed to put the kibosh on this whole thing, tell her she's insane, and carry her to the bedroom. That's exactly what I would do if she wasn't looking up at me all kinds of shy through her lashes. Now I'm curious, so I walk over to my pile of clothes and reach for my underwear.

“No,” she yells. “Just the jeans.” I didn't think it was possible to get harder than I was, but either I'm a medical marvel or I had no idea how turned on a person could get. I pull on my jeans, and the boots of course, and walk back to where she is on the couch. My jeans are buttoned and zipped, but the belt is unfastened, and she uses it to pull me back over her.

“Come up here,” she commands, but I'm confused. Up where? She pulls harder on my belt and lays back, reaching her hand into my jeans to grab my cock. What the...? I look down to see that she's positioned me to...

No. No fucking way. I'm not going to fuck her mouth. What is she thinking?

I pull her hand off me and move to refasten my jeans when she runs her hand up my chest, flicking one of my nipples with a fingernail.

“Edward? You said you found me sexually attractive.”

“I do! But...”

Her eyes flash angrily. “But what? But not like this? I thought you liked it last time.”

“I did. I do. Ugh. Bella, I love you. I want to show you how much I love you, and that doesn't mean fucking your mouth!”

“Maybe it means letting me do what I want to show you how much I love you. Sometimes, Edward, that means letting someone fuck you. Or, you know, blow you. I'm not a vase. I won't break. I just want to know that you really, really want me sometimes. When you came into the kitchen, you looked like you did. So show me.”

I remain unconvinced until her hand dives back into my jeans and she runs her finger over my tip, sliding the pre-cum over the head as she frees me from my jeans. I struggle to catch my breath and decide that she can do whatever the fuck she wants, which is good, because she reaches her hand around, grabs my ass, and pulls me to her, sliding her mouth around me as I pitch forward.

~ B~

He damn well better cooperate. I did a fuckton of research online about this fellatio business, and I'm going to do it right this time. No spitting. No choking, no gasping, no freak-outs. Above all, no color commentary. I'm not sure if he's been avoiding this kind of thing because he's afraid he'll hurt me or because he thinks I hated it, but enough is enough. I am going to make this the most fucktastic sexual experience of his young life if it kills me.

Mostly, I'm planning to fix things with us. We need to be equals. He moves me in and wants me to feel like I belong, but he's wrapping me in cotton batting to make sure I don't rattle around. Sometimes, you need a little rattling around. I plan to rattle the living hell out of his cage tonight.

I refuse to start things off slowly. Enough with this gentle crap; it's time to go right at it. When he walked into the kitchen, he looked feral, like a predator waiting to take down his next meal. For a minute there, I thought I was seeing the return of Caveman Kid, as the muscles flexed in his jaw as he tried to control it. Trouble is, he did control it, and began touching me like a china doll, when I'd prefer he club me over the head to have his wicked way with me. So instead of easing him into it,

I grab his belt and yank him forward until his knees are near my shoulders, hovering over me. I've got him exactly where I want him, and relax my throat to pull him in as far as I can manage without gagging.

I slide my tongue around him, moaning, and try not to smile as I hear him grunt. Looks like I get my way, Rich Kid.

Now that he no longer needs convincing, I move one hand to cup his balls and, with the other, drag my nails along his chest again. He shudders and begins moving his hips, fucking my mouth and muttering nonsense above me.

“Not right... should be worshipped... oh my fucking hell that mouth... this is not veneration... oh god, oh yes, baby, just like that... just like that...”

I listen to him, getting more and more turned on that he's not even thinking about what he's saying or doing, rubbing my thighs together wishing he was touching me. My panties have to be fucking soaked, and I'm kind of wishing he'd sneak a hand back there and get down to serious business. I know he's getting close, though, when he begins thrusting erratically and he begins to panic.

“Fuck... so close... can't... not again... where?... oh... oh...”

He pulls out, and I can feel he's going to climb off me, so I grab his hips, holding him while I add my hand to his own on his cock. He whimpers, and releases onto my chest and neck, moaning my name. Fuck, it's so hot I think I could come just from the feel of him coming on me.

“Bella...” How much do I love that his voice is hoarse right now?

I know I must be grinning like the damn Cheshire Cat as he sits back on his heels, resting some of his weight on me.

“How... where... why?”

“I read it in a fic,” I reply. “That was fucking hot, don't you think?”

His eyes bug out. “Seriously? You read that in your fanfic stuff?”

I nod. “See, this stuff comes in handy, doesn't it?”

“Whoever wrote that bit? Keep reading their stuff.”

He reaches for my Strong Bad shirt to clean us up, but I grab his hand. “No! Go get a towel. Do not desecrate Strong Bad with your spunk!”

He takes off to the bathroom and I grin. I might not be half-bad at this stuff after all.

~ E~

I clean myself in the bathroom and fasten my pants before heading back with a warm, damp cloth to clean Bella up and, well, reciprocate, but she's fallen asleep on the couch, a shit-eating grin on her face. She's adorable, and obviously so damn pleased with herself, even asleep.

I wipe her gently with the washcloth, before grabbing her Strong Bad shirt and pulling it on, taking a seat on the floor next to the couch to watch her sleep. She mumbles something that sounds like “pearls” before rolling to her side, facing me.

I have no idea what possessed her to do that just now, but I'm pretty fucking glad she did. She was so adamant, demanding that I stop treating her with kid gloves, and she was right. I needed to know that it could be both hot and loving. We could be both.

I will never understand this fanfic business that she reads, but if it's going to provoke her like this and send her off to get me new clothes and shoes to play out a fantasy? I'll buy the whole damn site myself to make sure she has plenty to read. Still, I wonder if she's working on her novel in addition to the other stuff, and am tempted to look at her laptop to see what she's up to.

I trust her, though, and I know she'll talk to me about it when she's ready. I need to believe in her with her writing like I do with everything else. So instead of snooping through her laptop, I sit here on the floor and watch her sleep. She's so different this way; constantly in motion when she's awake, you can see the gears turning in her mind, even if she isn't moving. When she sleeps, other than the brief periods when she talks or rolls over, she's perfectly still, as if her body spends every second of sleep regrouping from the day.

She's nearly naked, but for a simple pair of lavender cotton panties with lace edges, and I can't resist the temptation. I let one finger slide between her legs and am almost instantly hard again when I feel how wet they are. How the fuck could she have been this turned on and only worry about my pleasure before falling asleep?

I slide my fingers into the lace waistband of her panties and begin to wiggle them down her legs. A light brush of my fingers against her navel gets her to roll to her back, and I'm able to remove the panties altogether. I nudge her legs apart with one hand, while two fingers from the other check between her folds to see if any wetness remains. Shit. She must be dreaming of all the things her useless boyfriend didn't do to her.

Checking to make sure she's really asleep, I replace my fingers with my tongue, skimming my hands along her thighs. I have a feeling she'll be nervous the first time I try this, and can only hope that if she wakes up already in the throes of her orgasm, we can skip right over any first-time fear.

Her hips begin to move, and I rest my free arm over her pelvis to hold her in place while I continue. I'm about to enter her with my fingers when I feel her hands in my hair, and groan as she threads them through, winding until she can grab handfuls. I'm hard enough that I'm half-tempted to rub my cock against the sofa as I do this just to get some relief, but she scares the crap out of me by yanking on my hair.

I'm so startled that she manages to pull me off her and she's yelling. “What the fuck are you doing down there?”

My hands are now occupied trying to disengage her fingers from my hair. Oddly enough, neither the yelling nor the hair-pulling is doing a damn thing to kill my hard-on.  
  
“I'm... reciprocating?” She can't honestly be that clueless about what I'm doing, can she?

“No, Edward, you are not. I need to prepare for this shit. I need to shower and do some landscaping down there and hopefully figure out a way to get my lady juices to taste like ice cream or something before I allow this sort of thing.”

“Baby, come on. You're fine. I want this. I want to taste you.”

She gives me the most deprecating look she can manage at the moment, for I've freed one of her hands, and have snaked one hand between her legs again. Her eyes roll back as her breathing picks up. I take advantage of her distraction to lose my clothes yet again before pulling her up from the couch and sitting back down with her on top of me.

She grinds her hips against me and whimpers, leaving me to position myself at her entrance and let her take me in. My eyes close involuntarily at the feel of her lowering herself onto me so slowly it feels like it's taking all fucking night, but once I'm all the way in, she wastes no time in starting a fast rhythm. Fuck. You'd think after she just got me off, I'd be somewhat immune, but the feel of her riding me combined with her breasts being at near-perfect mouth level have me feeling like a 17-year-old virgin.

I take one erect nipple in my mouth while sliding my fingers down her stomach. She pants out my name, grabbing my wrist and directing me to where she wants my touch the most. She leans forward, holding on to the back of the couch, with her mouth even with my ear.

She's making the sexiest little noises in her throat, and I'm trying so fucking hard to not come too fast and leave her hanging again when she whispers, “I fucking love you, Edward. I can't stand it. I want... uhhh... you like... this... forever.”

I lose it at 'forever,' unable to hold back anymore, but continue moving her over me as I hear her breath catch and feel her hips lose their rhythm. She comes with three shuddering gasps before collapsing against me as I catch my breath. I wait until I'm sure my legs can hold us before I lift her off me, stand, and scoop her up again to carry her to our bed.

I place her under the covers, snuggling up behind her and whisper, “I want you forever, too.”

She covers my arm with her own, twining our fingers over her stomach, and squeezes my hand. We fall asleep connected like two interlocking puzzle pieces.


	26. There's Puke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's puke again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Viola Cornuta for "Christ on a communion wafer" (sending both of us straight to hell).

I seriously thought we were past all this squirrelly shit, but here he is at 5:30 in the morning, and I want to put my broadsword through him. (We kept my broadsword when sorting through which pieces of my crap we should keep. Edward likes that I can potentially take the head off an intruder if it's sharpened, which it isn't.)

His iPhone is on like super-quiet vibrate setting or something, and he makes like a ninja getting out of bed to shower. He reaches into his underwear drawer like there's a fucking grenade in there that's lost its pin before he tiptoes off to the bathroom. Of course, Rich Kid is no Baryshnikov, and he crashes into the bathroom door, muttering and swearing when he stubs his toe.

The boy is a fucking train wreck, and I need to know why.

However, I have bigger fish to fry this morning than him and his wackadoo behavior. I need to get out of here to do my first interview for my damn book. Too bad he's so nutbar that I'm afraid he's going to put one of those ankle monitors on me to track my every move around the apartment.

Maybe this is some sort of rich person mental illness. Don't they get all crazy like that one dude, Howard Hughes? Should I be watching for Edward to start wearing Kleenex boxes on his feet? If that's the case, do I call his parents for assistance or will they all band together, stalking me in the dark like zombies?

It's a crying shame I haven't been able to channel this creative thought process into my book. I'd have that mofo on the top of the bestseller lists in no time.

In the time it's taken me to think through all this, Edward has taken the world's fastest shower, and comes back into the bedroom starkers. Ordinarily, I'd want to leap off the bed and lick every last drop of water off him, but I'm more interested in observing the behavior of a nutbar in the wild. He brings the underwear he retrieved earlier back into the bedroom, opening his drawer a tiny crack to shove it back in and pull out a different pair of underwear.

The great underwear switcheroo is my final straw.

I sit up, yelling, “Rich Kid, what the ever-loving fuck are you doing this morning?”

Maybe I shouldn't have surprised him like that. He jerks fully upright, slamming his fingers in his drawer. Flailing around in pain after that, he crashes into the closet door, knocking himself into the floor lamp and landing in a tangled heap on the floor.  
  
“Baby Swan, are you trying to scare me to death?”

“No, are you?”

“Am I trying to scare myself to death?”

“No, you asstard! Are you trying to scare me to death? What the hell is with the ridonk ninja routine this morning? Have you left your company in favor of a career as an assassin?”

Honestly. The man is driving me completely insane! “I was trying to let you sleep this morning.”

Now I know something's up. He usually crashes around the apartment hoping to wake me up. Sometimes it's to talk, and sometimes... well, sometimes he thinks he might get some. To let me sleep is unheard of.

“Then why the return trip to the underwear drawer, Rich Kid?” He has the sense to look sheepish. “I have a board meeting today and I realized I didn't have my lucky underwear?”

Yeah, Rich Kid. That big question mark at the end really sells it. You're up to something, you nutjob, and if I wasn't up to something myself, I'd totes be all over your shit. I have bigger problems than your underwear drawer fetish, though. Much bigger problems.

I'm petrified to tell him what I've decided on for the book.

I told him I wanted him forever, and to me, that means sharing every single part of me. I understood that was the root of the fight over bringing my Sanford & Son décor to his apartment. He felt I was holding something back. Now I'm holding back my writing: the most intimate part of self that I can imagine.

It causes me physical fucking pain to do this, and I hate it. Right now he's hiding something, and I'm hiding something, leaving this gigantic cavern of non-communication between us. It makes my head hurt and my stomach roll. He's walking out the door to go to work and all I want to do is throw myself at him, cling to him like a goddamned burr, and not let go until we both spill our guts and talk to each other.

He closes the door softly, as if he's hoping I fell back to sleep, and it makes me want to cry. I'm not sure what makes me more afraid: the thought that he might think my book idea is stupid, or the thought that it might make him so angry he ends us. It could honestly go either way, but I get downright neurotic at the thought that he could stay with me even if I was a complete imbecile when it comes to writing.

Instead of going back to sleep, I have to get ready for a breakfast meeting that's really an interview of sorts for research. Something tells me I can't get by with wearing pajamas for this one, much as I'd love to show up in the Jack Skellingtons.

~ E~

I'm ready to punch through my monitor. Why am I being such a fucking pantywaist about this whole thing?  
  
She said forever, right? Forever means always. Means infinity. Means for all time. So why am I so worried about asking her to be my wife as part of that forever?

Oh yeah. We've known each other five weeks, and I don't want to end up on a television talk show about couples who jump into marriage when they barely know each other's middle names.

Did Baby Swan ever tell me her middle name? Jesus Moxie Crimefighter Christ, I'm not sure if she ever did. I'm planning on proposing to a woman and I can't remember if she even mentioned her middle name, much less what it might be if she did. It's not like I can exchange vows by asking the officiant to give her name as “Baby Fucking Swan,” right?

I'm a mess. Who knew this would be so difficult?

I'm sitting here, at work, Googling fucking marriage proposal ideas. What's this? Oh shit. Someone actually proposed in public, and the girl turned him down? It's on video? Please, tell me that the URL means this is just an ad.

I have opened my top desk drawer in an attempt to breathe into it, hoping that I'm re-breathing enough carbon dioxide to counteract any hyperventilating I'm about to do when Jasper bursts into my office.

“Is knocking a courtesy that died out with the 20th century?” “I have big news, Oh Sainted Friend and Bossman.”

I roll my eyes. I think maybe everyone has lost their shit today. Jasper is downright ebullient, and that's frightening in itself.

“Edward, what are you and Bella doing a month from Saturday?”

Christ on a pin-up calendar, is he kidding? I have no idea what Baby Swan and I are doing tonight for dinner, and he wants to know about a month from now? No way.

“I have no fucking clue. We don't plan any farther than five minutes ahead. Why are you asking? Having a picnic or some kind of housewarming party when you and Alice move in together?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“That's great news! Can we bring anything?”

“Well, I'm hoping you can bring a tux.”

“Come on, Jasper, are you shitting me? You are having a black tie party for your housewarming?”

“No, I'm having a black tie party for my wedding. I asked Alice to marry me last night and she said yes. We set the date for a month from Saturday.”

It's a damn shame my drawer is still open from the hyperventilating, because it blocks the trajectory from my mouth to my wastebasket, and I puke my morning coffee into it. Jasper is not amused.  
  
“What the fuck, man? I tell you I'm getting married, am about to ask you to be my best man, and you puke? Is the idea of me marrying Alice that offensive to you?

Not to mention, someone is going to have to clean that shit up.”

I manage to puke again, this time getting the wastebasket, and Jasper opens my office door. “Angela!”

She jumps in her chair, which means she was probably doing one of those math puzzle magazines she's so fond of solving whenever she has nothing productive to do.

“Yes, Mr. Whitlock?”

The too-obvious formality means she knows she's busted and wants to remind him we have a casual work environment for a fucking reason.

“Angela, cut the shit. Edward is sick. Um, very sick. So I'd say don't go in there. Call building maintenance or whoever is responsible for cleaning up vomit and warn them they are going to need a decontamination unit in there. I'm going to drag him home. Can you call Lauren and ask her to rearrange anything that needs arranging while I take him home?”

Angela must offer some type of assent, because the next thing I know, Jasper is dragging me by the arm and holding Angela's wastebasket in front of my face.

“We're taking your car, you stumbling git. I don't want puke all over mine.”

I can't even get my head together enough to reply. Jasper. Is marrying Alice. While Grandmother Platt's ring sits nestled in my underwear.

He stops long enough to let me dry heave into the pail, but there's nothing left in my stomach to bring up. Why the hell am I so sick over this? It's a girl. It's a ring.

It's Bella. It's the ring.

I manage to make it into the car and through the short drive to my apartment without getting sick all over my car. Jasper is silent, but I can tell by his white knuckles that he's angry as he clutches the steering wheel. He can't be that angry that I'm sick, so what is it? I do a mental run-through of everything he's said before it clicks on the second time through.

He was asking me to be his best man. Instead of congratulating him, I puked in my desk drawer. I'd be angry, too.

When we get to my place, he hauls me and my trusty wastebasket out of the car and drags me to the elevator. He uses my keys to let us in, and I listen for the sounds of Baby Swan. By some miracle, she's out, and I'm glad. This conversation doesn't need to happen in front of her.

“Dude, I'm sorry. I have no idea what came over me...” I trail off, and Jasper snaps. “What the fuck? I mean, you can't manage a congratulations? A fucking mazel tov?

Instead, you start puking as if the idea of me falling in love with someone and getting married is some sort of personal affront to you? What sort of fucking friend does that?”

We've been friends for so long I can't remember a time when we weren't, and yet this is the angriest I've ever seen Jasper. His anger is directed entirely at me, and I can't say that I blame him.

I leave him in the living room as I walk to the bedroom and retrieve the ring, heading back with it as if it were a lit stick of dynamite.

“I have no excuses, only an explanation.” He stares at the ring. “Edward, I've seen that ring before.” I can only nod.

“It's my grandmother's. She wants me to propose to Bella with her ring. I went the other day to get the ring from her, but I have no idea how to do this. I'm scared to ask her, but more scared that I will and she'll say no and take off into the sunset, and in the meantime, this fucking ring sits in my drawer, taunting me.”

I expect him to punch me. He bursts out laughing.

“Jesus God, you are a train wreck. You puke into your desk because I managed to propose first? We are both out of our gourds wanting to get married this quickly, but you are even more of a psycho for getting sick that you weren't first!”

I drop my head into my hands. He's absolutely right. I'm insane.

“Look, you are my best friend. The second Alice said 'yes' the first person I wanted to tell was you. The only problem is, I somehow knew you would do this. You are so hell-bent on believing you aren't good enough for anything that you make yourself crazy with it. Half the time, you think the board wants to replace you, your sister wants to kill you, your mother wants to forget you were even born, and your girlfriend—who for some unknown reason thinks you are successful and confident—wants to break up with your ready-for-Bellevue ass. At some point, you need to realize that you are young, apparently attractive to women, the CEO of one of the most successful Internet companies out there, inexplicably making money hand over fist, have parents who love the living shit out of you, and have a girlfriend who thinks the sun rises and sets on your fucking command. Man the fuck up and finish this! Quit fucking hiding, and tell Bella how you really feel.”

It's at this exact moment that Baby Swan wanders in, looking decidedly inebriated, reeking of moth balls or some shit, and carrying a fucking Birkin bag of her own.

~ B~

“Whadda fffffffffuck iz goin' on?”

That didn't exactly sound the way I thought it would in my head, but fuck if Rich Kid isn't here in the middle of the day with Jasper. They are sitting way too close on the couch and Jasper has his hand on Edward's shoulder, staring intently into his eyes as he tells him to man up and tell me the truth.

Oh shit.

Somehow I'm on my ass on the foyer floor and I smell like something nasty for some reason... oh, the cedar chest. I smell like cedar. You'd think people would know not to put all their shit in cedar chests, but they do and then it all smells like old person.

Well, that makes sense if you are an old person I guess. They have a lot of things sitting around to stick into cedar chests. Which is why I smell like one.

Wait. Assfloor. Rich Kid. Jasper. Couch. “Ffffffffuck me. I am sooo slow.”

Edward is too damn busy staring at me to do much of anything, so Jasper makes his way over like he's going to help me off the floor. Only his approach looks a lot like I'd picture someone using with a rabid dog about to be put down.

“Whass he gonna tell me, huh? Whassa truth? Are tha two-ah yous an' Rich Kid in love?”

Even in my horribly drunk state, I can tell that Jasper is trying hard not to laugh, but I'm fucking incensed that I've been lied to. Even if Rich Kid does fuck like it's an Olympic event and he's been training his whole life. Shit. What's that saying? You are fucking everyone your partner has slept with?

“S'not fair.”

“What isn't fair?”

Damn Southern gentleman is all polite and shit.

“S'not fair that I gotta be 'sposed to diseases an' shit but I don' getta fuck you for realz.”

Southern gentleman goes right out the window as Jasper loses control and starts laughing. He's laughing so hard he's downright sobbing.

“Edward?” He calls over to the couch. “Edward, I do believe that Ms. Swan feels I am queer as a three- dollar bill and have seduced you away from her.”

I tear my eyes away from hysterical Jasper and turn to Edward, who is still on the couch and pale as fucking Casper. He doesn't say a word, and I'm getting angry.  
“Izzis true? Are you two teh ghey? Wha truth you talkin' bout?” “Bella, love, do you realize you are actually speaking in leet speak?” Jasper asks. *

I give him an evil stare, pulling myself unsteadily to my feet so I can look more authoritative when I confront Edward.  
  
“Why you home?”

He rises from the couch and takes a step toward me before shoving something into his pocket.

“Why are you drunk? It's not even noon!”

Point to you, Rich Kid.

“I uhz ata innerview.”

“What kind of interview sends you home drunk with a fucking $15,000 purse?”

Oh. Shit. The purse. I spin around to find where I left it when I came in the door and lose my balance. Luckily, Jasper is still next to me and catches me before I manage another assfloor or worse.

“Bella, hon, Alice is going to want to tell you herself, but I may have proposed. That proposal sent our boy Edward here into a tailspin, and he puked all over his office and I had to bring him home. Now let's pour you into bed right now before you do the same, and you can explain how you get drunk at this hour of the day and wind up with a big old expensive purse at the end.”

He lifts me into his arms effortlessly and carries me to our bedroom, Edward trailing him like a specter. He tucks me in before fetching me a tall glass of water and a pail that looks suspiciously like it was stolen from an office.

“I think you both need a nap. Promise me you'll go easy on him when you wake up. He's not in much better shape than you, even if he is still sober.”

I think I remember nodding before I close my eyes.

Shit, fuck, damn. FUCK.

~ E~

I'm pacing back and forth in the hallway outside of the bedroom, swearing with every step. Unfortunately, my vocabulary isn't nearly as colorful as Baby Swan's, and I run out very quickly, leaving me to repeat the same words over and over.

I sound like I have Tourette's.

This is not going according to plan. In the outline of how this goes, I plan some huge, romantic evening that culminates in a romantic proposal the likes of which no one has ever seen. Bella leaps into my arms, professes her undying love, and hies off to my parents' house to start planning the wedding of her dreams with Esme.

Okay, even I know that wouldn't really happen.

Still, the thought of Alice and Jasper getting engaged before us is unthinkable. Baby Swan is supposed to be the crazy, impulsive one, leading me on a merry chase. Jasper is supposed to be unflappable. Alice is supposed to be Bella's more serious best friend.  
  
Now I'm here with a ring in my pocket. If I propose to her now, or at any time in the near future, it will appear as if I'm trying to keep up with Jasper.

This is not how I wanted this to go.

“Christ on a communion wafer, what the fuck died in my mouth?”

Ah, my princess has awoken.

I step into our room only to find her in the bathroom, furiously scrubbing her tongue with a wet washcloth.

“Rich Kid, really? Did a tarantula crawl in my mouth while I slept and die?”

“You came home drunk. At 11 in the morning. With an expensive bag”

“A bag?”

She appears confused, hunting around the bed until I offer up the bag in question. It's a green leather Birkin, obviously second-hand, and looks oddly familiar.

“Did you want to tell me about the bag?” She has the courtesy to look sheepish as she replies.

“I'm guessing you aren't going to let me go with a simple 'I got it as a gift during my interview this morning' explanation?”

I shake my head.

“Why is this so hard? I love you, Edward, I really do, but telling you about my ideas and my writing feels more like getting naked than actually getting naked does.”

Mr. Horrible hears “naked” and perks up, which I'm assuming is not the reaction she wants. I wish I could give her something comparable...

I am a fucking idiot. I reach for her hand, pulling her back out of the bedroom toward the living area. To the piano. “I have a dinner-hour hangover, and you want to play piano for me?”

I don't respond, simply gesture for her to sit next to me on the piano bench. I wait for her to get settled before I begin to play. At first, she sits as politely as she did the first time I brought her here to do her laundry and played for her. Unlike that time, however, she doesn't leave me to lay on the floor. Instead, she sits, growing more rigid as I continue to play.

My fingers fumble occasionally on the keys. The melody is still imperfect. I can sense, however, when the realization dawns on her, but she waits for me to finish before she speaks.  
  
“You wrote that.”

I nod.

“You wrote that for me.”

How on earth did she know?

She nearly knocks me off the piano bench with the force when she throws herself into my arms.

“I could hear it... everything... the confusion, the speed, the sweetness... how the fuck did you do that? You wrote us! When did you do that?”

“I've been writing it in my head. Noodling a bit when you sleep sometimes. It's honestly the first time I've played it through like that.”

She hugs me so tightly I can barely breathe. “I was interviewing Granny Platt. I'm writing about Granny Platt.”


	27. There's a Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Tuesday Jane for the line about “it's all about insecurities and redemption,” and MsKathy for the missing sugar bowl.

That piano is a tool of the devil.

Here I am thinking he'll play me a nice little classical ditty. Instead, he pours out his fucking soul to me. Find me a girl who could resist that and 'll call Ripley's for you. There's no way to keep your head about you in the face of something like that. One minute I'm all mushy over the song, and the next I'm spilling my guts like I just met the wrong end of a nihontō. * “You interviewed my grandmother?”

I stare down at my hands and Rich Kid starts muttering to himself. “Explains the purse and the booze and the old person stench...”

“Edward, are you mad?”

He rakes his hands through his hair and I'm once again fighting the urge to jump his bones. This morning it was Hot, Wet Edward and now it's Hair Porn Edward.

What the fuck is up today with his simultaneous seduction and confusion with him today?

“I'm not... mad, Bella. I'm... concerned. I can't believe you'd offer up my entire family situation for public consumption.”

“That's not...” He doesn't even let me finish.

“I mean, you've seen what it's done to my sister, and to my mother's relationship with her mother. To put that out there... You said it yourself, I was on the Time fucking 100 list. I realize you want to sell your book, but attaching my name to it for the notoriety... I know it would drive sales, but it seems so beneath you.” The asshat is all but looking down his aristocratic fucking nose at me.

I can't even come up with anything to say to that. My mouth is open, but no words are coming out, and Mr. Tom Fuckery keeps right on going.

“I suppose if you wanted to write tech celebrity gossip pieces, there are other venues than one of those Andrew Morton specials, aren't there? I mean, what about celebrity gossip blogging? You could be the Perez Hilton of the business world. You could stake out shareholder meetings and chase CEOs into traffic.”

I want to punch him right in the fucking face, but I'd probably break my hand.

“You think I'd write a book about that?” My voice may be pitched a little higher than is appropriate here. “You think I wasn't telling you what I decided to write about because I planned to write about something that obviously hurt your family so much? That I'd reveal your parentage for the entire world? You are a fucking twatwaffle!”

I want to throw something, but the piano is too big and he's sitting on the bench. I stalk around the apartment looking for something I can chuck at his head. The vase? No, that's Waterford. The picture? No, it's a picture of Carlisle and Esme. I finally settle for pillows, which don't exactly make nice crashing sounds.

“Baby Swan? Why are you throwing pillows at me?”

“Because I don't want to break your expensive vase, you tool! I can't believe you think I would do that to you! To your family! Are you fucking high?”

He looks concerned, but not properly chagrined enough for my liking.  
  
“You think so little of me? So little of how I feel about you? You think I'd do that to you and your family? On top of that, you think your grandmother would be offering me mid-morning boozefests and her slightly used, expensive handbags if I was going to rip your family up in public for shiggles? You are underestimating both of us, fucktard, and I don't like it one bit. Then you suggest I should be a fucking gossip blogger? A bottom feeder? Is that all you think my writing is good for?”

“I'm sorry. I assumed...”

“Assumed begins with ass, which is exactly what you are, Rich Kid. Only question I have now is where the fuck am I supposed to go now that my apartment is gone? Jesus Cardboard Box Christ. I'm going to have to power up my laptop in the fucking library.”

I'm grabbing plastic grocery bags to pack my shit because Mr. Anal Fucking Retentive recycled all the boxes the second they were unpacked, and, well, the bags will be easier to carry, and can double as pillows in my cardboard box. Meanwhile, Rich Kid is watching me like he's observing mating habits of primates at the fucking zoo.

“Where are you going?”

“I told you, not ten seconds ago. I'm going to find myself a nice fucking cardboard box, and live there. Maybe in the alley right here next to the building so you can see me and think about what a toaster fuck you are everyday as you pass me panhandling.”

I've got the handles of the grocery bags looped over my arms, and I already look the part of a bag lady. I'm a little sad about Birkin, but hopefully Edward will at least know how to care for my damn fish, even if he doesn't know a thing about me.

Of course, his sorry behind is standing in front of the door as I try to exit and even if I attempt to move past him, the arms o' bags don't do very much for me other than provide padding as I bonk into him with soft, squishy clothes. I'm obviously not much of a threat here. I may as well be wearing one of those stupid sumo suits.

His face is downright pathetisad when he says, “I'm sorry, Bella. I don't know why I thought that. I never thought anything about my grandmother would make a decent subject of a book. I already told you that my background is worthy of a day-time talk show. I should never have thought you'd use that for your book, but my head is just... addled today.”

“Addled? Did you seriously say your head is addled? What sort of old biddy are you?”

He grins that fucking half-ass smile and I want to jump his bones again. Wait. I'm mad at him. I do not want to jump him. No siree, not one bit. That smile is not going to get him laid today. He thought I'd sell him out, and I need to remember that when he starts giving me that “Come fuck me” smile.

“Have you spoken with Alice?” Hello, Mr. Non Sequitur. “What does Alice have to do with you assuming that I'd fucking sell you down the river for a book deal?”  
  
He does that thing where he closes his eyes really tight like his brain is about to explode behind his eyelids if I say even one more word, so I keep my mouth shut and wait.

“Do you remember Jasper telling you earlier that they're engaged? He told me today at work.” “Again, and that has exactly what to do with the price of tea in China?”

His hand goes through his hair again as he looks at the floor, and he mumbles something. “What did you say, Rich Kid?”

I don't expect him to yell, but he does anyway, startling me. “I said, 'I thought it would be us first!'”

How do I respond to this? He's jealous? Because they got engaged? Who knows if we'll really ever get married or whatever?

“So what? Jasper proposes and all of a sudden it puts the fucking idea in your head that I should be slapping on a white dress? They got engaged. Big deal. Everyone does things at their own pace. I mean, look how fast we moved in together! There are people who think we are nutters.”

“You aren't listening, Bella. It was supposed to be us first!” That almost sounds like he had a plan.

~ E~

The ring is burning a hole in my pocket. From the second I shoved it in there when she walked in to when she asked what Jasper and Alice's engagement had to do with us, I've been able to feel it sitting there, the diamond jabbing into my thigh.

I thought I had all the time in the world. Now, I have no idea what to do. I want to bind myself to her in every possible way that I can, but I don't want it to be rushed or overshadowed by Jasper and Alice. The more I think about it, the more I feel the ring digging into my leg and tormenting me.

“You want to marry me? You tell me I should be a gossip blogger, and then you turn around and say you want to marry me?”

I'm supposed to answer that. How do I answer that? Yes, and I have the ring right here? Yes, maybe someday? Do I lie so I can surprise her later? Tell the truth and do this in the wake of our friends? Honesty. Communication. That's what we're supposed to be working on. Too bad we're doing such a shit job of that this evening.

“Yes, Bella, I do.”

Her eyes grow wide, and she pales. Wait. Did I just propose like that? Does that count as a proposal? Fuck. This is not how I want to propose!

“Are you asking me? Right now? Like this?”  
  
I could do this. I could save it. I could get down on one fucking knee right now and ask her to be my wife. I take a half-step forward, about to assume the position, when I process this. No girl wants to experience this moment at the tail end of an argument, after hearing the news that one of her best friends has gotten engaged. Baby Swan may be eccentric and original, but somewhere in that Habitrail brain of hers, there's a dream, and I'm not going to ruin that bit by being an asshat.

I continue toward her, watching as the grocery bags slide off her arms, making crinkling sounds as they plop to the floor in messy piles. I take her face in my hands, my fingers sliding into her hair as I hold her gaze.

“No, Bella. I'm not proposing like this. That isn't what either of us wants right now, in this minute, but you know that marriage is where I think we're heading. We moved in together first, and I expected that we'd do everything else first as well. I don't want us to get engaged simply because Alice and Jasper did. I want to ask you to be my wife when we are both ready to take that step, and based on our misunderstanding tonight, I don't think we're quite there yet. Do you?”

My heart breaks the tiniest bit when she sighs in relief. “Not right this minute, Rich Kid, no. Although I seriously like the idea as a general principle.” She steps forward and rests her cheek against my chest, sighing again. This time, it sounds contented.

Leaving the bags behind, I take her hand and lead her to the kitchen, where she fixes us dinner. Well, if you consider dinner to be two bowls of Grape Nuts cereal to which she adds chocolate fucking chips and just enough rice milk to make the cereal wet. I raise one eyebrow at her as she passes me the bowl she's made for me.

She huffs in response, and stomps off to the refrigerator, retrieving a pint of raspberries she drops on the counter, popping the lid and shoving it toward me.

“There's your fruit or vegetable, you produce addict. Now eat.”

I have to wonder if she's had anything but alcohol and this bizarre cereal concoction today, but she manages to pop a few of the berries into her cereal bowl, which I guess could be considered progress.

“Rich Kid?”

“Hmm?” The chocolate chips really are pretty damn good in this cereal. I'm surprised no one ever thought of... Wait a second. This is supposed to be a non-sugary cereal. I've let her take it to the Dark Side.

“You don't have to marry me, you know.” I nearly spit out my chocolate-chip infested cereal. Is she kidding? “Bella, why wouldn't I marry you?”

“Well, you know, I can't have kids and shit, and that's usually why people get married, right? So all that legal shit for the kids is taken care of. That wouldn't be a factor for us, so you don't have to feel like you have to, you know... Plus, if you don't marry me, you don't have to worry about things like a pre-nup...”

Did she just say pre-nup?  
  
“You think I'd make you sign a pre-nuptial agreement?”

“Well, of course! Why wouldn't you? Jesus Tax Shelter Christ, Rich Kid, you have all your trust fund piles of money and then the company piles of money, and probably those piles of money all got together and bred like rabbits to make baby piles of money...”

I'm about to lose it with her, and I stand abruptly, knocking my spoon to the floor. “There will be no fucking pre-nup!” I bellow. Her eyes grow huge, and I'm angry with myself for frightening her.

“Baby Swan, I want to marry you, okay? I want you to be my wife and put a ring on you and all that traditional stuff that probably makes no sense to you. I need that. I also need to know that we wouldn't have this huge division between us over money all the time. What's mine would be yours. What's mine is yours. The fact that you are so uncomfortable with that is exactly why the mere idea of a pre-nup is offensive. It's like you are planning to fail. Not to mention, you were about to break up with me tonight since I was such an asshole, and all you packed were your clothes. You wouldn't even throw the vase at me because it was too expensive!”

When she smiles, then breaks into laughter, I know we are back to our usual status quo. She heads off to the bathroom to change into some undoubtedly heinous pajamas, and I take the opportunity to return the ring to its hiding place in the back of my underwear drawer.

It's obvious after today that I need a plan for this proposal.

~ B~

Rich Kid readies himself for work this morning like usual, only he totes sneaks a handful of chocolate chips into his Bark Krispies when he thinks I'm not looking. It's only a matter of time until you are craving the Crunch Berries, my pretty. I stand at the coffee maker, a cup of coffee poured, but missing the sugar. I look in the cupboard, but the sugar bowl is totes MIA, and instead, there is a box of little packets with a blurb about nature's sweetener.

“Where is the sugar bowl?” Rich Kid plays dumb. “I have no idea. Isn't it in there?” “No, but some packets of hippie shit are in here and I need some fucking sugar! Where. Is. The. Sugar?!”

He shrugs, and I'm tempted to rip his head off. Instead, I take my coffee back to the island and rip open the packet of sweetener, dumping it in. One sip tells me it's really not that bad, but it doesn't make me any less pissed.

I'm sitting there on my stool, trying to get both eyes to open at the same time, and holding onto my coffee mug as if it's the Holy Fucking Grail. He kisses my forehead (which I'm sure is an unspoken apology for hiding my sugar) and asks if he should mark the levels in the liquor bottles with a Sharpie.  
  
“Edward, do you seriously want me to kick you right in the bag before you leave for work?”

He reacts instinctively, covering up the boys with his hand. He should know better than to fuck with me before I've been suitably caffeinated for the day.

“I'm going to transcribe some of the interview with your grandmother and then work on a freelance gig for some nutbag Internet company.”

He grins and kisses me on the forehead again before he leaves and I want to whimper when he goes out the door. He's missed a fuckton of work lately, though, and begging for him to work from the apartment so I can try to seduce him is a bad plan. A very bad plan. He has a company to run.

I play back the recording I did of my interview with his grandmother once, just to get over the laughing. I should know better than to try to drink with Granny Platt; that woman is a fucking pro. As the interview progresses, my words begin to slur so much that I have to return to my question sheet to figure out what I was even asking her, while she's still enunciating like she's in the midst of a debate.

This family is messed up.

I play it a second time, taking notes. What I didn't tell Rich Kid is that I'm not even doing this as a biography, and Granny Platt is in on it. It's a novel, since I can't limit myself to reality when I start writing, and if Oprah has me on, I don't want her to get all bitchfest on me when she finds out I exaggerated. So I'm sticking with fiction, loosely based on the life and times of Ermentrude Platt. If Edward's sitch hadn't been what it is, he might have gotten to know her better growing up and learned what a bizarro and interesting life the woman has led.

Her husband may have been old money, but she wasn't, and yet she fell in love with Mr. Richy Pants anyway. She's a spitfire, Granny Platt, and I like how their whole story is one of insecurities and redemption. Kind of like mine with Rich Kid, paralleled something like 85 years after Granny Platt's. She's seen a lot.

After note taking, I really should get to work on the crap I'll get paid for, but I have my whole outline done for this book. I'm nearly ready to start writing and doing more research. Edward volunteered to use his parents' connections to find me an agent, but I think I need to do this on my own. It's enough that I'm living here and working for him. I feel like a freeloader half the time, and his whole heartwarming monologue about sharing his pots o'money have me a little bit freaked out. I'd like to do something on my own, even if it's something as fucking impossible as getting a book published.

Of course, I start Googling all kinds of shit about getting published, which leads to fanfic, which leads to me reading a bunch of fanfic, which, naturally, leads to me finding the worst thing I can find. It's all smutterific and there are tongues battling for dominance and heated cores and heaving breasts. Instead of getting turned on, I laugh until I weep real tears. Someone should seriously start a “What Not to Do” list when it comes to writing things having to do with sex, because some of these scenes read like a Mad Lib with certain words entered in.

I'm wondering whether Granny Platt would be offended by me putting in a hot 'n heavy scene in the book when my phone rings. I'm not even paying attention to the ringtone when I answer.

“Beauty?”

It isn't Emmett.

“What could you possibly want?”

“Look, I got a call from Mitt-Mitt, who apparently got a call from Alice...”

I don't even take the time to be pissed off that Alice called Mitt-Mitt before calling me. I'm more angry that Jamie, of all people, is calling me to discuss Alice's engagement.

“She asked me to sing for their wedding.”

“Like _The Wedding Singer_? Only, instead of being dressed as Boy George, you'd be what? Marlene Dietrich?”

“Not funny, Beauty. You know I'll wear a suit or a tux or whatever Alice tells me, and not be in drag. I just didn't want things to be awkward...”

He has some serious brass balls.

“You didn't want things to be awkward? When did you figure that out? When you revealed my virginity to my suitor, or when you explained to me how my sterility made me undesirable?”

“Beauty...”

“Don't 'Beauty' me, Jamie. I appreciate everything that your family did for me. Every-fucking-thing. That does not, however, give you the right to tear me down with every secret and flaw I have because you can't stand the thought of me actually being happy. A true friend would have been happy for me. Not jealous. Until you can get your selfish ass to that realization, there's nothing more I have to say to you.”

I end the call without letting him speak again. Fuck this noise. I need to work on bettering myself as a person and breaking out of my poor little match girl role. I know exactly where I can start with this, and my fingers are shaking as I make the call. She answers on the second ring.

“Esme? It's Bella Swan. I was wondering if I could ask your help with something...”

~ E~

I never knew how long a work day was. Some of it may have to do with perception, considering how many half-days I've taken since taking up with Baby Swan, but even living with her, I hate being away from her. I'm always nursing the irrational fear that she'll be gone when I come home, and yesterday's fiasco didn't help that fear at all.

I'm glad of the break when Jasper barges into my office and seats himself on the couch, sprawling as if he were at home watching a football game.

“Jasper, did I miss a meeting?”  
  
“No. I came down because I was distracted and needed a break. Plus, I never did officially ask you to be my best man yesterday, what with the puking and the drunk girlfriend and our official coming out party.

“How is your drawer, by the way? Should I get you some moth balls for the stench?” I shoot him the dirtiest look I can manage.

“Edward, I'm sorry I fucked up your engagement plans. Really, I am. I had no idea. Bella doesn't seem like the type to get married, to be honest, and Alice is the kind of girl who's had her wedding planned her whole life. It's a bit frightening, to be honest, especially since her biggest hang-up involves the flowers and the combination of scents. I swear she's planning on telling the guests they aren't allowed to wear any scented products the day of the wedding and will send bars of Ivory soap to further her cause.”

“I should have mentioned it. Actually, the fact that I didn't mention it shows you that I wasn't even thinking. You didn't screw anything up that I wasn't already fucking up on my own.”

“So you really are planning on marrying this girl?” “If she'll have me. I keep fucking up in new and ever-more-horrifying ways.” “What did you do this time?” “I accused her of using my relative fame as a means of marketing the book she's starting to write.” I probably should be mortified at the look Jasper gives me, but I've already earned Baby Swan's forgiveness.

“You really have absolutely no affinity for interacting with anything other than binary numbers, do you Edward? It's mind-boggling to realize that you've created an online social network when you fail in every way at anything involving relationships.”

He has a point. Who else pukes in their desk at the announcement of his best friend's engagement, or accuses his girlfriend of using his notoriety and angst-ridden back-story to further her career goals?

“How do I get better at it, though? What do I need? Therapy? Medication? A fucking personality transplant ? ”

“What you need is for someone to knock some sense into you. Instead of jumping to conclusions and freaking out all the time, maybe you could ask questions and talk to people. That includes me. I had no idea you were even contemplating marrying Bella.”

“In my defense, I had even less of an idea you were planning to marry Alice. What brought that on?” He shrugs. “I knew that first night in the club. She was everything I never knew I wanted.” Everything he never knew he wanted. That makes a hell of a lot of sense. I know exactly how I'm going to propose to Baby Swan.

I hear Angela's voice on my phone telling me that my mother is calling. I put her on speakerphone to save time; Jasper will ask me about the conversation anyway.

“Edward, you and Bella will be having dinner here this evening.” “Thank you for the, er, invite, Mother, but I have to speak to Bella first before I can make any plans.”

“No worries, darling. She's already here. Come over whenever you are finished at the office.”

The last time my mother and Baby Swan were left to their own devices, my mother revealed the Mr. Horrible name. I'm torn between bolting out of work to race over there, and curling up under my desk to sleep tonight.


	28. There's a Change in Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mozzer0906 for the comparison of Laurent to Benson.

Where the fuck is Stockard Channing when you need her?

Seriously. I mean, Esme is the shiznit, but I'd feel better right now if I had a compatriot standing around with her hand on her hip and a cigarette dangling out of her mouth berating me about what a fucking tool I am.

I'm not sure, but I think this might mean I'm missing Jamie. Instead I have Esme. Well, I also have Laurent, but he's been strangely silent throughout the proceedings, somber and looking almost... disappointed in me. I can't say he's been anything but polite, but the camaraderie we had before seems to be just... missing.

I look at the clock; it's nearly 7:30. Edward should be here any second. I look nervously at Esme, fidgeting with my outfit and hair. She reaches toward me, dragging my hand out of my mouth. I've bitten most of my nails down to the quick since I've been here, which probably isn't going to help.

Esme and I hear talking outside the door, and she races Laurent to open the door. Carlisle and Edward have arrived at the same time, and Edward lets his father enter first. Carlisle does a double-take when he sees me, but steps to the side without saying anything, letting Rich Kid move into the room.

Rich Kid, always elegant, gapes at me before yelling, “Mother, what the ever-loving fuck have you done to Baby Swan?”

I smile brightly, hoping this means he's pleased with the results of the afternoon I spent with Esme, but before I can ask for confirmation, Carlisle butts in, asking,

“What's for dinner this evening? Something smells delicious.”

I really turn up the wattage on my smile before answering him.

“It's Fennel-Rubbed Pork with a Shallot-Pomegranate Reduction, Walnut Couscous, and Roasted Asparagus with Balsamic Browned Butter.”

Esme leads us to the dining room, and Carlisle pulls out both my chair and Esme's, since Rich Kid is staring at me like I've grown a second head. I'm sure my forehead is wrinkling in a way Nicole Kidman's hasn't been able to in ten years when I check my dress to make sure I haven't spilled anything on it. This shit was pricey; I paid full fucking retail for it at Target. I figured the navy blue eyelet shift was good for dinner and any upcoming funerals I might be attending. For instance, Rich Kid's funeral may be coming up soon if he doesn't say something about how fucking nice I look. I even put my hair up.

Laurent serves dinner, and for the first time, he's not in his usual wise-cracking Benson mode. Everything is served silently, and the lilt to his accent is almost gone when he asks if we need anything else. Dinner is the formal meal I feared the brunch would be when I met the Cullens, and Rich Kid is absolutely mum, leaving Esme and Carlisle to carry the conversation while I stare daggers at him and wonder why he's acting like such a fuckwit.

“I have yet to hear anyone offer their compliments to the chef, Edward,” Esme admonishes him, making me want to crawl under the table and die.

He narrows his eyes at his mother, and I cringe. He's... angry? “Laurent went back into the kitchen, Mother.”

She giggles, which causes him to look even more pissed off. Something is off here, and I can't figure out what it might be.

“Laurent didn't actually make dinner, Edward. Bella's asked him to teach her to cook. She is responsible for tonight's dinner.”

Whatever I'd been thinking Rich Kid would do at this point isn't close to what actually happens. He shoves his plate forward like a toddler angered by Brussels sprouts, and gets up from the table so quickly he knocks his chair over.

“It's fucking delicious,” he bites out as he leaves the room. We hear the front door slam mere seconds later and Carlisle and Esme both stare at me, stunned.

Laurent, taking the door slam as his entrance cue, saunters into the dining room with a water pitcher and bottle of Patron. He refills our glasses, then sets the bottle and a shot glass in front of me. I turn to look at him.

“Sometimes, Miss Bella, we want exactly what we have. When it's threatened or it changes, we react with anger.”

Miss Bella from Laurent. He must be pissed. He leaves, and I look down at the lovely dinner I made, then at the bottle of tequila, which has become the Tequila of Truth in more than one way now. I mumble excuses to Carlisle and Esme, grabbing the Patron and the shot glass before heading to the door. I have no idea where he's gone, but I'll find him.

I haven't gotten any farther than the front porch when I hear—no, sense—him. He's sitting on an uncomfortable-looking wicker chair yanking on handfuls of hair while he mutters to himself. I let out a choked laugh; as fucking insane as I am, all it takes to drive him right off the ledge is a conservative dress and a slightly gourmet dinner.

“Edward?”

The muttering stops, but the hair pulling doesn't. He keeps his elbows on his knees and his face pointed to the floor.

“I just wanted to surprise you. I guess this wasn't the kind of surprise you were looking for, was it?”

At that, he turns his face to me, and there are streaks of tears. He's fucking crying. Doesn't he know that's my gig?

I drop to my knees at his feet, not caring that I'm totes going to put a hole in these faux Spanx pantyhose I spent a small fortune for at the Eye of Mordor.

“Edward, you are scaring me. I don't know what I did wrong. Why are you so upset?”

Making eye contact with him makes me feel like I've been punched in the stomach. There is so much pain there that I feel like I've mortally wounded him somehow.

“Have I made you feel that unworthy? he asks. “That you feel you have to change everything about yourself to fit in with my family? You think I don't love you exactly as you are?”

~ E~

I don't know how she can even look at me right now. I walked into my parents' house and she stood there expectantly, nervous and eager-to-please. Watching her smoothing her new dress and nearly cringing as my mother asked our opinions about the meal had broken my heart. I miss the girl on the bench, bellowing at me and demanding I buy her chocolate. The brash girl in tie-dye tights and combat boots has given way to a girl in a pretty dress and good manners. Shit, I'm pretty sure there were even multiple forks at her place setting tonight.

The ring is in my pocket. I'd thought about offering to propose to her after she and Laurent had placed some monstrosity on the table. Even now, I could see it: Sloppy Joes spilling all over my mother's fine bone china. Esme furiously scrubbing the tomato-esque sauce from her beige linen slacks. Me on one knee, promising to spend the rest of my life trying to make this quirky girl happy and keeping her in canned goods.

Instead, I am forced to see that I've made her feel inadequate. She thinks she needs to change for me. She dresses up and uses a recipe she doesn't have in her head and asks for advice from my mother and my parents' butler because she doubts her own worth.

How do I explain this to her?

I blurt out my horror at what I've made her think, trying to get her to understand that I don't want her to change.

She laughs.

She's on her knees at my feet, worried, and trying to pull my hands from my hair, and then she begins to laugh so hard she falls to her ass.

I'm staring at her like she's possessed by demons. “Edward! Are you seriously upset because you think I did all this because you hurt my feelings?”

Well, yes, pretty much I am. I want to ask this crazy woman to be my wife and she's acting like a Stepford wife.

She inelegantly clambers up into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck. I sit stiffly, unsure what I should be feeling. Relief? Guilt? Anger? Is she laughing at me or with me?

I won't look her in the eye, so she nestles her head between my jaw and my shoulder, and I can feel her warm breath against my neck.

“Edward, I know that you love me exactly as I am, as shocking as that might be. I don't want to be anything different than me, warts and all. Problem is, though, I need to be more than that sometimes. There's a time and a place for everything, including tuna noodle casserole. I didn't have a mother who taught me how to cook nice dinners and dress appropriately for social functions, and that's something I want to learn as well. Your mom actually went to fucking Target with me. TARGET! Can you imagine? I think Laurent may be a little pissed that he doesn't get to do the usual tonight, but he was so sweet and helpful this afternoon. I thought it would be a nice surprise for you after all the take-out and white-trash cooking I've been subjecting you to. I never thought you'd think I was doing it because I felt unworthy.”

I'm able to look at her now, and she's just so fucking present that I want to stay in this moment forever. I'm an ass for fucking up her big surprise like this, yet she's unable to summon up the indignation she really should have for me. She's more concerned that she somehow upset me than she is about me ruining her plans, and all I want to do is throw myself down on one knee, pull out the ring, and ask her to marry me. However, I'm nothing if not a pussy, and instead, lift her to her feet and then take her hand.

“I'm really sorry that I screwed up your dinner, Bella. You look... Well, you look stunning, even if you are almost unrecognizable. The dinner looked and smelled wonderful, and hopefully it'll still be delicious when cold.”

“No worries, Rich Kid. I'm sure Laurent will be happy to stick it in the nuker.”

I sigh. One of these days we'll find ourselves on the same page and it will be such an incredible moment of bliss that the world will implode. Until then, it looks like we may be stuck with cold dinners, someone crying, and fights. At least we are getting to the point of talking about our need for a relationship Rosetta Stone. All we need now is to find it, and life will be as perfect as I can imagine it being. I'm so comfortable with Baby Swan that sometimes I forget we are still so new at this couple thing. Surprises aren't always interpreted correctly.

We walk back into dinner holding hands to find that my parents are just finishing up and Baby Swan's plate is headed back out to the table in Laurent's capable hands. My place, however, has a paper plate, which I don't think has ever been seen on my parents' dining room table. In the center of the plate is what appears to be a sandwich: two pieces of white bread and a slice of cheese slapped together hastily. Baby Swan spots it and bursts into laughter.

“Laurent,” she shouts. “Is this actual Wonder Bread?” Laurent pokes his head through the door to the kitchen to answer her. “No, Miss Bella. It would be the generic equivalent.”

She shrieks with laughter as he ducks his head back through the kitchen door. I look at the pathetic excuse for a dinner and think I deserve exactly what I get, but Baby Swan takes the paper plate and pushes her re- warmed dinner to me with a smile.

I don't deserve her.

~ B~

The rest of dinner goes much more swimmingly, with Laurent forgiving me at some point and bringing me a plate of the fucking dinner I'd made. He gets a little cranky when you mess with him. I told him about the pudding version of the Jell-O cake and he defrosted a little more.

We finally get back to the apartment, and all I want to do is get these fucking pantyhose off so I can breathe and feel my ass again, so I ask Rich Kid to feed Birkin. I hear him fucking around with the tank lid as I peel the damn things off me, wondering if I should have powdered myself first with the way they stick to my legs.

Suddenly, I hear Rich Kid swearing at the top of his lungs like a trucker. Shit! If Birkin bit him, he's going to be so pissed he might want to get rid of him.

I race into the living room, and Rich Kid's arm is dripping, and he's banging on the top of the tank, yelling at Birkin.

“You stupid fucking fish. Give it up, you fucker. Give it up!”

“Edward? Are you okay?”

He turns to me, and I'm instantly worried, because I'm in nothing but my underpants and a tank top. He doesn't even bat an eye at me.

“I...” He sighs. “I dropped something in the tank. I'm not sure if your stupid asstard of a fish ate it or buried it, but when I try to put my hand in the tank he fucking bites me. Bites me!”

I'm trying my best to not giggle, but it's not easy. Rich Kid is wet, angry, and Birkin looks sort of... smug. “Do you want me to try? I pet him more than you do. Maybe he'll let me...” “No!” He cuts me off before I even finish the sentence. “Really, I don't think he'll bite me.”

“I said no!” I'm not sure if he sounds angry or panicked or maybe a little bit of both. “Is it something important, Edward? I mean, eventually he'll give it up, right?”

He shrugs and moves to run his hands through his hair when he realizes one hand has been in the fish tank. He grumbles, and heads off to the bathroom, still not noticing my underwear, which is sheer black lace. Something's afoot, and I walk slowly to Birkin's tank, keeping an eye on the hallway for Rich Kid's return. His obsessive ass will be scrubbing with antibacterial soap for a full rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, so I carefully raise the lid on the tank and put my hand close to the water's surface.

As expected, Birkin stops his digging in the fucking pebbles and swims over for a little bit of love. As I reach out to pet him, he spits. I have no idea how the hell he got this into his mouth, but he's managed to spit a ring into my hand. Not just any ring, mind you, but a huge-ass diamond ring. I turn it over in my hand, and try to figure out where Birkin could have gotten it. This doesn't look like a new ring, but rather an antique; there are small diamonds set into the band in a way I don't think I've ever seen before, and the diamond in the center is huge. It's so big I have no idea how the fucking diamond fit into Birkin's mouth, much less the rest of the ring.

I dry it off on my shirt, and am holding it up to the light to inspect it a bit more closely when Rich Kid walks back in, staring at me like I've just shaved my head and declared myself a Martian.

“Birkin just spit this at me, Edward! Where the fuck could he... have...”

The look on his face changes to a combination of pleading and panic, and it hits me. I'm holding a diamond ring. What appears to be an antique diamond ring. After Rich Kid was just banging on the tank and cursing at the fish. Which just spit the ring at me. It's a diamond fucking ring.

“Edward?” I hate how my voice sounds high-pitched and shaky.

We are both frozen in place, like mannequins posed for some freaktastically uncomfortable Old Navy ad, arms outstretched. Mine is still holding the ring out to Edward for inspection, and his is still reaching toward me, a request caught before it was made. “Bella, it's not... I didn't...”

I need to sit down. The floor looks good. I'll sit there. I plop right on my ass, still holding the ring up like it's the Holy Grail and I'm afraid for it to touch the floor. My sitting prompts an immediate reciprocal response from Rich Kid, who stumbles over as clumsily as I probably would. He nearly throws himself at my feet where I'm sitting, patting me and asking over and over if I'm okay.

Which I'm obviously not, Rich Kid. I'm holding a diamond ring that my fucking fish spat at me. Sitting on the floor. Maybe lying down is a better option for me right now. Lying down sounds like a plan.

I place the ring in Edward's hand and sink to the floor, putting my head on my arm so I can position myself on my side and still see his face.

“Bella, are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?” “Was this what you lost, Edward? Was it this ring?”

Again he moves to rake his fingers through his hair, and again, he thwarts himself when he notices he's holding the ring.

“It was Grandmother Platt's,” he explains, although that's not much of an explanation at all. Or is it?

“I had a plan. At least, I thought I had a plan. Then Jasper and Alice... and everything... and... I had a new plan... and then dinner and the dress...

“I'm sorry, Bella. I keep wanting to make things perfect for you, but they never end up that way. I know we haven't known each other very long at all. I know that our friends just got engaged and this is right on top of their engagement. I know that half the time we aren't even on the same planet, much less having the same conversation, but the day I met you, my life turned upside-down and I can't imagine ever turning it back the way it was. I could have planned out every little bit of asking you this question, and we'd have managed some way to fuck it up anyway. So your bizarro-world fish and the paper plate sandwich with generic bread and, well, all of this are pretty much us. Oddly enough, I like it this way, and want it to be like this for the rest of our lives.

“So, Baby Fucking Swan, would you please, along with your fish and your Tequila of Truth and your wallowing gear and your White Trash Cookbook, make me the happiest nerd alive and agree to become, at some point yet to be determined, Mrs. Edward Cullen the Not-Quite-Second?”

~ E~

Time stands still when you are waiting for the answer to the most important question you've ever asked. Bella probably takes no more than a fraction of a second to answer me, yet it feels like a year. Or longer. What does she answer with?

“Are you sure?”  
  
Am I sure? Did I not brave the Cave of the Undead for the ring? Drag shows? Fights with queens, conspiracy theorist friends, more puke than I care to think about, horrifying pajamas no human should ever be seen in, an apartment move, and the ugliest fish ever?

“Very sure.”

“You remember no babies, right? Any conversations with my ovaries would mean you are talking to ghosts.”

“I remember, Bella.” “I know nothing about successful marriages. My parents should be a case study.”

“My parents aren't exactly a world-class example, either. Let's consider that learning by example rather than experience.”

“Still sure?” “Very sure.”

Oddly, she isn't sobbing. She cries over everything, yet the moment when all girls are supposed to cry, she isn't crying at all. She launches herself at me from her prone position, knocking me to the floor. Landing on top of me, she curls herself around me, looking me in the eyes to give me her answer.

“Then yes, Rich Kid, I would love nothing more than to keep you in trashy dinners, fugly pets, and a constant state of chaos as your wife, Ms. Bella Swan-Cullen The Fucking First.”

I want to stand up and yell and call everyone we know to tell them we're engaged. I wrap my arms around Baby Swan, kissing her eyelids and her cheeks, and her forehead while I stroke her back. It's then that I realize that she's wearing nothing but black lace panties. And a tiny tank top. And what appears to be a matching bra from what I can ascertain by the straps peeking out.

I think engagements have to be consummated before they are announced. Don't you?


	29. There Are Black Lace Undies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are black lace underpants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to hunterhunting for the Thundercats suggestion.

By the time Rich Kid figures out I'm in nothing but black lace undies, a matching bra, and a skimpy-ass tank top, I am wearing a diamond ring on my finger.

I. am. engaged. I am engaged to marry Edward Anthony Cullen the Not-Quite-Second.

I should be panicking here, right? I should be freaked out and saying I'm too young and not established enough and haven't lived enough of my life yet and Jesus Cradle Robbing Christ he's just a baby and certainly not old enough to get married.

I had no idea I had such latent girl tendencies buried inside me, but the second he slides the ring over my second knuckle, I have visions of Jordan almonds and a white boho maxi dress and how hot Big Daddy C would be in a tux.

I'm only kidding about that last part . Well, sort of. Carlisle in a tux must be a sight to behold.

Still, as Rich Kid strokes my back, he slides my tank top up just a bit until I finally feel his fingers against my skin, and I'm reminded that my life right now is better than any fucking fic I've ever read. Here I have this insanely perfect man willing to marry me and deal with all of my absolutely ridonk personality traits, from crying at the drop of a hat to constantly misunderstanding what a normal human being would do in any given situation. We screw up, we make up, and my life couldn't be more ideal. I am one lucky girl.

I am laying prone on top of the aforementioned fiance, still on the floor after my near faint. His hands have left my back and are currently skating over my lace-covered ass. He loves me. He wants me. One happy shimmy later, I feel not only the hands on my ass, but a delicious hardness pressed against me. He groans.

“Bella, sweetheart, can we move this to the bedroom?”

What? Hell no, we aren't moving this to the bedroom. He's back on that kick again, isn't he? Diamond ring means fiancee, means Harlequin romance level lovemaking with classical music in the background. Sometimes I get the feeling that he pictures me sweeping into the bedroom wearing kitten heels trimmed in marabou and a peignoir set.

“No.” “No?” “Why do we have to move to the bedroom?”  
  
I lean forward, licking his neck and allowing myself one single swish of my hips, grinding over him. He moans.

“Bella, please. Stop teasing. I want to make love to you for the first time as my fiancee.” Oh, Rich Kid. You will. Only it won't be how you are planning.

He is still fully dressed, his only concession to the new clothing I got for him is to wear his Converse with his nerdrobe, and cooler t-shirts under his button-downs. I slide my hands between us to unfasten the buttons, revealing a blue shirt with what looks like—yes, it is—Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots macking on each other. As much of a turn-on as wearing his ring is right now, seeing the shirt I'd bought for him is even more of one. It's a sign that as crazy as it seems, this is working. We haven't been together that long, yet there is so much bleed between our lives that pretty soon we'll be like those old people who've been married for 100 years and get dressed in matching clothes every day without planning it. I love knowing that when he got dressed this morning, he pulled on that shirt, keeping me close to his heart without half-trying.

My hands creep under the hem of his shirt, yanking to pull it over his head and off his arms, my mouth following the shirt along his chest.

Moaning, he repeats his request. “Baby Swan, please... bedroom?”

He's so pathetic I almost cave. Almost. Then his shirt is off and my hands are on his belt and, well, who the fuck wants to wait long enough to make it to the bedroom?

“Here,” I breathe, lifting my tank over my head.

The matching black lace bra apparently does the trick, because he quits bitching about location and finally gives in. His hands are running over , then under, the lace: bra, panties, back to bra again. It's like he can't decide what he wants to touch first. Not that I'm complaining.

“Where?” he pants.

By now I have worked his pants and his boxers down to his knees, and he's trying to drag my bra off my arms like he's forgotten he needs to unhook it, his mouth attacking my neck.

“Um... here?”

He pauses for a moment, and eyes the couch skeptically. I know exactly what he's thinking; every time we are on a couch, I end up running the whole show. Just once, I'd like him to let loose and take total control. So no couch today, future Mr. Bella Fucking Swan-Cullen the First.

“No, Rich Kid. No couch.”

At this point, what with the frantic hands and all, I'm better off showing him, so I scoot backward to the couch on my knees. As expected, he follows me, whimpering at my distance, even though there are mere inches between us. How could I not want to spend the rest of my life with him when he's this adorkable?

When my feet finally bump the couch, he's so busy trying to get me to hold still that he crashes into me, nearly pushing me back to the couch. Naturally, Mr. Horrible manages to situate himself right where I want him and the sound I make can only be described as keening. Edward grunts. “Bella, get on the couch.” I weave my fingers in his hair, licking his jaw before positioning my mouth right at his ear. “No. I would like my future husband to bend me right the fuck over this couch.” I feel his entire body stiffen, and I know exactly what he's going to say next. “I can't. Bella, you just agreed to be my wife. I can't... I just can't.”

I swear to Señor Patron, I'm about to get up off this floor, pull on the rattiest pair of pajamas I own, and hand him back this ring. The thing is, I won't. I get it. He wants to show me how much he loves me, but he's still thinking that means a bed of rose petals and some Ravel playing in the background.

So I keep my fingers in his hair, and my lips pressed to his ear as I whisper, “You can. You love me. Show me you trust me. Show me you want me. Bend me the fuck over this couch.”

~ E~

She's wearing nothing right now than a pair of black lace underwear and my grandmother's diamond engagement ring, begging me to fuck her over my couch.

I close my eyes and attempt to take in air, her breath still warm against my ear. My hand has slipped into her panties and she groans.

“Please, Edward. You can.”

I think it's the begging that does it. Loving her sometimes means giving her what she wants, which in this case, means giving it to her bent over my fucking couch.

In a move intended to be both an elegant execution channeling serious macho caveman and sexy at once, I try to spin her so that she's facing the couch, forgetting that the damn panties will trip her up. Instead, in a move so Bella-like I wonder if we are sharing a brain, I nearly knock her over. She giggles before grabbing her panties at her hip and tearing them as she pulls herself upright again.

That's all it takes.

I push her the rest of the way forward until her chest hits the cushions, then grab her hips, pulling her back until she's positioned just right. I remind myself that I can still take this slowly.

Slowly, that is, until I press my hips up against her, simply needing some friction, and she jerks herself backward, taking me in with a single move.

I'm fucking lost.

I lean forward, pressing my chest against her back as I wind her hair in my hand, pulling it away from her ear.

“I sincerely hope, future Mrs. Edward Fucking Cullen with no hyphen-- which is what I'll be calling you in the bedroom no matter how you sign things—that you really want what you asked me for.”

I'm not sweet, gentle, or even particularly respectful, come to think of it. I can't believe this is how we are consummating our engagement, but then again, why shouldn't we celebrate it this way? I love her. I want her. She wants this. It's as simple as that.

Once my brain and my heart and my dick reach an accord, I pull back, nearly all the way out of her, before driving into her again.

I watch her fingers dig into the couch cushions as she whimpers my name. With one hand still fisted in her hair, the other one leaving bruises on her hip, I pull her back against me again and again while she babbles.

“You can call me.. anything... you want... Shit... Edward... Yes... I'll take your... name... oh... if you really... want...”

“Bella, touch yourself.”

I'm not sure which is more arousing at this point: the idea that she's going to be my wife or the fact that I have her bent over my couch while I fuck the daylights out of her. I watch her hand slide off the couch until it reaches between her legs, and the next thing I know, she's touching me instead of herself. I let go of her, falling forward onto her back and hanging onto the back of the couch for dear fucking life.

“Bella, damnit, I'm not... I can't...”

She lets go of me then, moving her hand so she can touch herself, like I told her in the first place. The other hand? The other hand holds onto the edge of the couch, her fingers digging in, and her elbow bent to give her leverage as she moves against me.

I look at her face, only one side visible, and see that her eyes are closed, her mouth moving in a whispered mantra I can't even hear.

“Bella? Can't...”

Her chanting stops, and she opens her eyes, lifting her head to look at me as she comes. Our eyes lock and I follow her into oblivion, feeling like in this single fucking moment, we are one unit. Marrying her after this will be a mere formality.

~ B~

Fucking A.

After the most amazing fucking sex in the world last night, I am woken by Rich Kid mocking the fucking fish.

“Looks like I outsmarted you this time Birkin, snarfer snarfer snarfer!"

Is he seriously quoting Thundercats when threatening the fish? Wait. Why is he threatening the fish? I try to drag my hair out of my eyes only to have something snag the hell out of it.  
  
A ring. The ring. I bolt out of bed and run to the living room where Rich Kid is stark fucking naked and mocking Birkin.

“Edward? Seriously? We are really engaged? Or is this some fucked-up dream? Because I have this ring, but then again, I have a naked boyfriend making 'neener, neener' noises at my fugly fish, which really leans toward the 'I had too much chocolate before bed' kind of a dream.”

He turns toward me, and the look on his face is positively beatific. He looks like one of those television preachers or something, with the soft focus and pretty light.

His eyes are lit up like some Thomas Kinkade painting and I'm floored. He's like some fictional romance hero: Hail Edward, Full of Bliss.

“Rich Kid? You in there?” He quits harassing Birkin and crosses over to me. “I'm here. I'm ridiculously happy, even if your pet did need to work his way into the whole proposal.” I snuggle up against his chest, wrapping my arms around him. “Bella, what kind of wedding do you want?”

I think about the Jordan almonds again, but then think about an Elvis impersonator in Vegas. One is obviously more me, but the other is obviously more Rich Kid, and I think we know exactly which one fits which person. I want to yell “Elope,” but then I think of Carlisle and Esme. I think of Edward wanting Jasper next to him. I think of Laurent wanting to inflict some hellacious wedding planning on me. I think of Mitt-Mitt wanting to walk me down the aisle, the closest thing to a father figure I probably have left.

All of this thinking is why I inhale deeply, look him right in the eyes, and lie, “I'd like something small and simple, with all our friends and your family, if that's okay.”

“I thought you'd want to elope or something,” he says softly.

“Your mother would be crushed. Mitt-Mitt and Alice would be crushed. Honestly? I think you would be crushed. If I'm getting married, I want everyone happy around me.”

“You aren't making yourself unhappy in the process, are you?”

“Not in the least. As long as you fight Alice off, because she's going to want me in some mother-fucking princess shit and I'm not going there. I'm wearing a dress off the rack, and I'll splurge and go to Marshall's instead of Target. Your mother can do the rest as long as we have veto. Other than that, I honestly do not care what the hell happens as long as I walk down some aisle, see you at the end, and you agree to be my servant for life.”

Oddly enough, Rich Kid is so far up in Cloud Nine that he nods in agreement like a bobblehead run amok. For a brief second, I wonder exactly how much I could get past him when he's in this zone like this, but that would be wrong. Right?

He kisses the top of my head, and my moment of nefarious plotting is gone.

“I have to leave for work. Are you going to be drinking, er, working with my grandmother today?”

I have to laugh. I need to work on some serious liquor tolerance before I can work with Trudy again. Bitch is a fucking professional, and I'm not even in the same ballpark when it comes to boozing.

“No. All-day writing. I'm in a groove, and I want to get as much cranked out as I can before writer's block hits or something. I don't even plan on peeing if I can avoid it.”

He scurries off to get dressed for work while I grab the vat of coffee and plop down in front of my laptop. By the time Edward leaves for work, I'm so in the zone I barely register him talking to me as he leaves. What I haven't told him is that I have a list of people to send my first few chapters to as soon as I think they're ready, and I'm shitting myself. There's no way I can tell Rich Kid or he'll be all supportive and offer to rub my shoulders or cook me meatloaf, and I can't deal with the added stress of him being, well, Rich Kid.

He's too nice to me. Too supportive. Too confident that I'm going to be the next Alice Walker or some shit when the reality is that I'll be lucky to even have someone look at my stuff.

I'm so scared to fail.

It's sort of amazing how my brain is working, because while my fingers are typing along with my story, my brain is all over the place wondering if I agreed to marry him so quickly as a fall-back plan. I mean, I do love him. I do imagine spending the rest of my life waking up to his naked ass trying to argue with a fish and ironing his nerdrobe like Dolly Fucking Homemaker. The questions is, am I wearing his ring because I'm ready to be married or because I like the security of thinking he'll be here even if I fall flat on my face with this writing thing?

Odds are only a highly qualified shrink could tell me for sure, but I'm not willing to pay $200 an hour to find out. If this were six months ago, I could have asked Jamie and he'd have told me for free.

Shit. Jamie. I stop typing for a minute. I'm getting married and Jamie won't be there.

From fucking prom to first kiss to my rejection from Cornell, Jamie has been there for everything. Now I've just promised to marry this fucktabulous man and I should be calling everyone and making loud squee sounds and making lunch dates to show off this rock on my hand.

Instead, I'm sitting in Rich Kid's—wait, my—apartment in yoga pants, a t-shirt Edward must have picked up as swag somewhere, and a hoodie, writing my novel and not calling anyone. I'm sure he took off for work and waltzed right into Jasper's office to share his unbridled fucking joy. They'll make plans to be each other's best man, celebrate their slightly creepy bromance over lunch, and meanwhile, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.

Alice didn't have to do a single thing when Jasper proposed. She's had a bridal planner updated every single year since she was a teenager. I'm sure he gave her the ring, they screwed themselves into oblivion, and then she pulled the planner off her bookshelf and began calling the appropriate numbers.

Not me. I wouldn't even know where one buys a wedding planner. If I call Alice, she'll scold me and take me on a forced march through bridal shows and dress shops. I could call Esme, but it should be Edward's job to call his own parents and let them know he's marrying the crazy girl with the frozen non-dairy whipped topping desserts. I could call Laurent or Mitt-Mitt, but they are still guys, no matter what their skill set at catering a white-trash affair or ensuring the government doesn't spy on my upcoming nuptials. This leaves only one person I can call who can help me.

~ E~

I've no sooner walked into Jasper's office than he starts laughing his rude ass off at me.

“My god, Edward, you actually did it, didn't you? You proposed to Bella!”

I want to slap him, but at the same time, he is my best friend, and he's so genuinely happy for me that I can't find it in me to be angry about the laughing. Plus, I did actually do it and I'm a little giddy about the idea that I'm engaged myself.

“Did you call Carlisle and Esme yet?”

“Shit. No. I suppose parents are supposed to be notified fairly early on?”

He rolls his eyes.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know these things? It's not like I've been engaged before!”

“Calm down. Call your parents before Baby Swan gets hold of Laurent and seduces him into catering the whole thing with a pig roast on the back of someone's truck and her very own moonshine still.”

I narrow my eyes. “Wouldn't she be calling you for moonshine?” He laughs. “Point taken. Seriously, though, before you call Esme, have you given any thought to when, where, and how?”

“When, where, and how what?”

“Don't turn this into an Abbott and Costello routine, Edward. Didn't you two talk about what kind of wedding you want? Are you going to elope? There's no way you can let your mother loose—or Bella can let Alice loose—without presenting a united front. Otherwise, Celine Dion's vow renewal with the elephants and camels and shit will look like an intimate, understated affair.”

The sad thing is, he's right. On top of that, he's getting married in a little less than a month, and I have to get through his wedding before I can really even think much about my own.

“You'll be my best man, right?” I blurt out. He rolls his eyes. “I can't rightly answer that, Edward, unless I know the answers to the questions I just asked you, namely, when and where. I mean, are you going to get married in Vegas the same day I'm marrying Alice? In that case, the answer would be a definite 'no.' If you plan on getting married as part of a circus act, it would depend on the act. You know I have that irrational fear of heights.”

I spend a few seconds reveling in the thought of Jasper quaking on a trapeze artist's platform while trying to dig the ring out of his leotard before I answer him.

“We discussed it a bit this morning before I left. She wants small and intimate, but all our friends and my family there. I don't think we are in any rush. She definitely nixed elopement, although when I think about giving my mother and Alice free rein on any planning along with mixing Rosalie and Grandmother Platt into the mix, I'll admit it sounds appealing. Elopement, that is.”

“Then there's your answer. Call your parents. Share your happy news. Tell them exactly what you and Bella discussed and tell your mother all plans have to go through Bella, because she has very specific ideas in mind. You and I both know that's not the case, but at least it will put a little bit of fear into your mother before she gets nuts.”

Jasper is always the voice of reason in my screwed-up and social-norms-deficient life. He must sense my relief, though, because he adds in, “Have you given any thought to a bridal party? I mean, will she ask Rosalie? Will you ask Emmett? And what about that bitchy drag queen friend of hers?”

I stare at him, shocked. Baby Swan has no family other than the McCartys. Jamie has been her best friend since high school. Of course she would want him there. I'm sure she wants Emmett involved as well. Besides my fright at the big ball of crazy that will bring to our wedding, there's also the realization that she isn't currently speaking to Jamie.

Jasper smirks and waves me off, and I wander out of his office feeling disoriented. Bella made me the happiest nerd on the planet last night. Besides accepting my proposal and my engagement ring... besides allowing me to fuck her senseless when we made love... she made me feel truly loved, and worthy of spending the rest of my life with someone who makes me deliriously happy.

It's up to me to make her that happy as well. All I need to do is make a phone call first.


	30. There Are Phone Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are phone calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to erinmiyu for the original Dune suggestion which I used yet again.

I've picked up my phone at least ten times and put it down. Three times, I've actually brought the number up in my contacts before exiting back out to play another rousing game of Solitaire.

I am a coward.

I need help. I'm a fucking quarterback here. I'm supposed to carry this ball and I need some damn coverage. There is only one person who is capable of clearing a path for me through this wedding bullshit. I must make this phone call.

So why am I so afraid?

It isn't like I think I'm going to be hung up on. I know this door is always open. Baby Jebus knows I've been told enough times. It isn't like I think Edward is going to be pissed off, either. He would be all for this if I weren't too chickenshit to tell him that I'm afraid.

I wonder if he's afraid, too.

See, I'm not at all scared to marry him. I mean, besides the whole fuckhot, wildly successful, and filthy rich thing he's got going on, I finally get that ridonkulously cheesetastic “You complete me” bullshit. I will never find another person who gets me like Rich Kid does. Even with all the stupid misunderstandings we've had since we met, it's not like we've ever had some big long fight or not spoken for days. It's a quick flash and then we are back to being copacetic. How many other couples can say that?

I heard a story once... I think it was Jamie and Emmett's mom who told me. She knew a woman who was divorcing her husband. No one remembers who initiated it, but rumor had it the husband liked to cat around. Then, mid-divorce, she finds out she has cancer.

They called off the divorce.

After all the hurt and the anger and the other shit, they looked at each other, staring this motherfucking monster of a disease in the face and said, “We need to do this together.”

Obviously, we don't have that kind of crap going on. Thinking of this probably makes no sense, but you look at that couple and you look at Rich Kid's parents and you realize that it's the big shit that's important, not the little shit. Canceling a divorce because of cancer... getting back together after a big old affair with an illegitimate baby... eating pot pies after I hand your sister her ass in a fist fight...I guess it's all the same to me.

The actual wedding, however, is another whole story.

I totes fucking lied to Edward, and that's probably a bad thing. Elvis impersonator in Vegas would be fuckawesome. Even better if we got to see a Cirque show afterward because I do love me some men in tight leotards with jacked-up make-up on while they fly around on ropes and shit. Of course, Alice would have a cow. Esme would probably slit her wrists with a diamond-encrusted letter opener. Rich Kid would be sad.

Sad Kid would fucking suck.

This, naturally, brings us back to having a wedding that actual people will attend, including whatever rich people the Cullen Bunch invites and whatever street people are in my contact list. There's no way I'm going to develop any kind of class or taste before this looming wedpocalypse, however, which means either the whole thing ends up looking like a carny run by hobos, or I call in some reinforcements.

Deep breath. Press the green button.

“Trudy? It's Bella. Edward proposed... Yes, the ring is lovely. I can't thank you enough for wanting me to have it... Actually, that's why I'm calling. I was wondering if you'd be willing to help me... Yes, I'd love to come over tomorrow morning. I'll see you then.”

~ E~

I have had the most productive morning at work that I think I've ever had, bar none. Baby Swan would say I'm “kicking ass and taking names.” The reality, however, is that my productivity is directly proportional to my chickening out. I'm supposed to be calling my parents and telling them that we're engaged. Instead, I'm working on advertising forecasts and employee reviews.

How fucking nerdy is it that I'm procrastinating by doing work?

I don't know what my problem is here. My parents seem to love Bella. God knows Laurent does. Rosalie is slowly warming up to her, and that's about as much as I can expect from her. Grandmother Platt handed over the engagement ring.

Why then, am I hesitating? I know they'll be thrilled and want to dive into planning and setting dates and doing all the traditional things like engagement parties and bridal showers. It isn't as if I fear disapproval.

No, what I fear is what comes after. Once I've told my parents, there's one more call I need to make and I don't want to screw everything up again.

I sigh heavily. Short of redesigning the site from the ground up, there really isn't anything I can dive into that would hold my attention. It's time to bite the bullet and call my parents.

I'm not sure if I should be happy or not that it's my father Laurent calls to the phone. He must have the day off today, because I was expecting to deal with Esme on this. I start opening my desk drawers, hoping that maybe Baby Swan has stashed alcohol somewhere in my desk.

“Edward? Laurent said you were calling with some news. I'm not exactly sure where Esme is...” I clear my throat. May as well dive right in. I'm sure the water is warm, right? “I'm calling to let you know that Bella and I are engaged.” He laughs, the bastard. Oh wait. I'm the bastard. He's the one who begot the bastard.  
  
“We figured it was going to be soon. Your grandmother called and told Esme you'd come for the ring. Did you do it at dinner?”

What do I say here?

“Uh, not exactly. The right moment presented itself when we were home in the apartment and I went with it.”

He doesn't need to know that by “perfect moment” I mean “fish spat ring at her.” “Have you set a date?”

“Not exactly. We started talking about what Bella would like this morning. She has some very definite opinions.”

That's what Jasper said to tell them to keep Esme from going nuts with plans, right? Definite opinions? “They all do, son. I only hope she can stand her ground against your mother. Is she pregnant?”

Unfortunately, I have a mouthful of Diet Coke when Carlisle springs this little nugget on me, and I bang my head on the desk, realizing I'm going to have to bite the bullet and clean up my spit take or embarrass myself by asking the cleaning people to come clean yet another one of my messes.

“Uh, no. Actually, that's something I'd have preferred to tell you in person, but since it came up, uh, that won't be happening.”

“Bella doesn't want children? Edward, that's a huge issue to live with. What if you change your mind later? Or what if she does?”

“Er, that can't happen. She can't have children.” Dead silence. Shit. I should have told them before now.

His voice sounds decidedly shaky when he finally speaks. “I gather that you and Bella have discussed the implications, as well as our family's, er, situation?”

“Yes. If anything, it's made her understand that I have a unique capacity to accept her exactly as she is. If we decide later that we want children, we know that there are options out there.”

He has to clear his throat before he can continue. Is he actually crying?

“How long has she known, Edward?”

“Since not long after we started dating. She was, uh, worried that I wouldn't want to keep dating her once I found out, seeing as our, er, socio-economic statuses aren't exactly in sync.”

I can tell that he's mulling this over, realizing that she's been around our family both before and after finding out about my father's indiscretions without acting even one iota different with him.  
  
“Son? You do realize how incredibly lucky you are to have found her, right?” Yes, Carlisle, I sure as shit do. “I am very lucky. I'm glad you think so, too.” “Would you like to tell your mother personally?”

He says my mother. He doesn't call her Esme. It doesn't escape my notice that his usually careful tiptoeing around our family history is slipping.

“Why don't you go ahead and tell her? Let her know that Bella and I will be in touch soon about planning, since I'm sure she'll want to help.”

“I'll do that, son. Congratulations. I think I can speak for both of us in saying that we are very happy for you both.”

As I end the call, I let out a breath I didn't even know I've been holding. That was way more intense than I thought it would be, and now I'm just a little bit freaked out. I still have to make one more phone call, and if I'm that wiped out after just the one call, what is this next one going to do to me?

~ B~

After days of non-stop writing and editing and deleting and freaking out, the packets are in my hands. Printed. Like some fucking anachronistic bullshit, I've been assured that these people want to read my bullshit printed on paper, in black and white. Why they can't go get Kindles or some shit like that, I have no idea, but here I am, packets in hand, ready to mail them.

Only I'm standing outside the fucking post office having a panic attack.

Edward wanted to come with me for this. He said he'd be here, and I said I wanted to be alone. It's like sending my baby off to college or some shit. I hope she makes friends. I hope no one slips her a roofie.

What's the worst that will happen? I'll get rejected. Madeleine L'Engle had A Wrinkle in Time rejected by how many publishers before someone took it? A Fucking Wrinkle in Time! Printed and reprinted over how many years and assigned to school kids and replaced time and time again by nerds like me who read that fucker cover to cover until it fell apart. Of course, Madeleine L'Engle never swore. And Madeleine L'Engle wasn't some crazy washed-up Ivy Leaguer who wouldn't even have these goddamned packets were it not for her crazy generous and super-loaded boyfriend who gave her the magnificent set-up to do this.

I'm going to do this. I take a deep breath and walk up to the automatic doors, then panic and skitter backward as they open. Okay, maybe I'm not ready. Let's work on this. I'm afraid. Fear.

_I must not fear._

Why?

_Fear is the mind-killer._   
  
_Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration._

Fine. So what am I going to do? I need to mail these motherfuckers.

_I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me._

Then what?

_And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain._

I think about that shit for a minute and then realize that the Bene Fucking Gesserit were coked up on spice all the time and had no fucking clue what they were doing. And I'd take the Gom Jabbar a hundred times over rather than send out these pieces of my soul.

I turn to head back to the car when I see him standing there, running his fingers through his hair. It's shorter, and I realize he must have gotten a haircut. “Bella? You have to mail those.” “How did you know where I was?”

“Edward said he thought you'd be here.”

Edward. Edward knew what I was doing. Edward paid more attention than I gave him credit for. Edward knew that I needed a confidence boost right now that would be bigger than anything he could do. So he sent me Jamie? What kind of sick fuck is he?

“Oh. Well, no, really, I don't have to mail these now. I'll do it later. I forgot my wallet.”

He reaches into the huge messenger bag I'm carrying, and hands me my wallet, opened so that I can see he knows that I also have my debit card. And cash. And my checkbook. In other words, he knows I'm just making excuses.

“Beauty, you've wanted this your whole life. Shit, you'd write your own stories and snow someone into doing a cover design, then print and bind that shit at Kinko's for your own pleasure.

“We let you hide for far too long with us. Sometimes, you just have to pull that mask off and show who you really are, letting yourself be vulnerable. If you spend your whole life avoiding that risk, you'll be safe, but you'll never be happy. And Beauty, I really do want you to be happy.”

I let out a sob as he reaches for half my stack, and walk in beside him to mail these things off. Somehow, it's easier to take this step with Jamie by my side. How could I have thought I'd take the next one—marrying Edward—without him there?

~ E~

I should be shaking in my boots. Which I'm not wearing. If I were, however, I still wouldn't be shaking in them.

For once, I know I did the right thing. No misunderstanding. No angst. Baby Swan needed Jamie back in her life. She also needed some additional self-confidence in mailing the chapters that she thinks I don't know she's mailing.

God knows the girl could never work for the CIA. Stealth she is not.

I'm sure she and Jamie will spend some time together once she mails her chapters, which is why I'm leaving early. I have one last bridge to work on rebuilding myself. This is why I find myself standing in my sister's office doorway waiting while she gathers her things.

Rosalie leaves her car behind; Emmett will pick her up after we're done and bring her into work tomorrow morning. That relationship is undoubtedly the weirdest thing that's happened since I met Baby Swan, and that's no small achievement. It's been like a fucking circus.

Still, as I pull into the parking lot, it dawns on me that Rosalie hasn't said a word since we left work. We walk in, still silent, and I gesture to her to go first.

“It's my treat, Rose.” She takes a few steps forward and finally speaks.

“I'll have a Quarter Pounder, no cheese, no onion, with extra dill pickles. No picking the cheese off an existing burger, because that is disgusting and I can still taste it. I want a large order of fresh fries, and make sure they are crispy. None of those cold, limp, about-to-be-tossed fries. I'd like a small chocolate shake and a large Diet Coke and you can stop laughing about the diet business and just look at this body. I simply like the taste. Edward?”

Jesus Hamburglar Christ. She's even high maintenance in McDonald's.

I order a simple combo meal, as it comes, and Rose heads off to scope out the cleanest table. Fast food is our secret; it's the one place Carlisle would take us when we were children to get away from a visit from Grandmother Platt. Even Rosalie, the princess of Ermentrude's kingdom, would get stressed at the tension. So Carlisle would pack us up—if he had enough warning of an impending visit—and treat us to soggy fries and burgers left under a warming light: the one place in the world he knew we'd never run into anyone who knew us.

As our relationship got more complicated when we got older, Carlisle stopped bringing us, figuring hiding out in his home office was better than listening to us fight. Since we've been adults however, it's a ritual when we have something important to discuss. Rosalie's employment contract was hammered out over Chicken McNuggets.

I carry our tray to the table she's obsessively covered with two layers of napkins and hand her the food.  
  
Naturally, she has to dissect it to ensure they've followed her instructions to the letter, but once she's decided the food meets her high expectations, she shifts her attention to me.

“What's up, brother dearest? You don't bring me here for salt and fat unless something important is happening.”

With Rosalie, it's always best to take the “pulling off a Band-Aid” approach. “Bella and I are engaged.”

She has a mouth full of French fries, and I wait while she takes a pull of her soda and formulates her response.

“Did you buy her a ring without asking me anything? Please don't tell me you took Jasper with you. I'm convinced he got engaged with something he bought from the trunk of someone's car.”

“Actually, no. Grandmother Platt gave me her ring.”

Her shock is immediate, and countless charm school classes go right out the window as my sister stares at me, mouth agape, masticated burger on display.

“Rosalie, she offered it and I didn't want to take it. I felt it should rightfully be yours, but then I thought of how much it would mean to Mother and how pissed off Grandmother Platt would be if I turned her down, and did it without thinking.”

Shit. She's crying. Rosalie does not cry. Ever. Why don't I think about all the possible repercussions when I'm doing something? I was so focused on marrying Bella...

“Finally.”

My head jerks up. Did she really say what I think I heard?

She's smiling. Actually smiling at me, which is confusing as hell.

“You didn't want the ring?”

“No, I didn't want Grandmother's old ring, Edward! Vintage is not my style at all, and I think we both know that. It makes me so happy that she offered it to you. She really likes this girl that much?”

I'm smiling as well. Rosalie and I are on the same page for once, happy that maybe all the fractures in our family can be mended. There's still more to confess, however.

“I think Bella reminds Grandmother of herself when she was younger, only not quite as fossilized. Add to that Mother's acceptance of her...”

“What aren't you telling me?”

It's impossible to keep things from my sister. She'd make an excellent police interrogator. I thought I'd be able to skirt around this topic with her, but obviously, I was wrong. Again, Edward. Band-Aid.  
  
“Bella is sterile. I'm not sure if she told Mother or not, but when I spoke with Father today, he seemed surprised.”

Rosalie hissed. Hissed. Was it the hiss of a pit viper?

“How can you do this, Edward? How can you fucking marry her? After everything our family went through?”

I'm biting the inside of my cheek to keep from replying to her in anger. When I do respond, my voice is deadly quiet.

“I am not our father, Rosalie. What happened with your adoption and the aftermath was something no one could have anticipated, and I'd like to think the entire family learned from his mistake, not just him. Not that we've made any decisions, but if Bella and I were to adopt, we'd already have that knowledge under our belts of what the worst thing that can happen is.”

“How can you say that now? How can you possibly know that you won't realize in ten years that you wanted children of your own? How can you see the future, and know that if things got rough, you wouldn't screw some nubile programmer at work who can give you the one thing Bella can't ever give you?”

“I would never, ever, cheat on her. You don't think our entire family has paid enough for Carlisle's sins to keep that from happening? He was unfaithful because he was weak, Rose, not because he wanted a biological child. I was collateral damage, not a fucking goal.

“As for Bella, I'd let her go first. It would fucking kill me, but I'd let her go.

“I will be damned, though, if I don't marry the most perfect girl that can possibly exist for me simply because she can't have babies.”

Rose pauses, assessing. How much of how we both react to people has roots in our own history? I can see the battle in her head: one part unwilling to let go of the mess of our childhood, seeing me as the fruit of her father's infidelity, and the other part sister realizing her baby brother would never repeat that mistake. Finally, she reaches out, grabs my hand, and gives it a squeeze.

“That was all I needed to know, Edward. Be happy. Now tell me when this soiree is going to occur, and please tell me I'm not going to be required to wear some type of hillbilly costume and eat sea bugs for the main course.”


	31. There's Cake But No Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's cake, but the ice cream is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to siouxchef for her drunkchatting that led to Bella's shower cake and the Cake Wrecks folks for inspiration.

Fucking Alice. The bitch up and decides to get married with less than a month spanning the engagement, the announcement, and the wedding. Since Rich Kid put his ring on my finger hot on the heels of her announcement, leaving her with a little less flash than she might have expected, she thought it would be adorable to have a joint bridal shower. It makes sense in one respect, since Edward and Jasper pretty much share the same invite list and neither Alice nor I have much actual family to speak of (actually, none). However, I am me, and Alice being Alice decided everything from the napkin colors to shower favors YEARS ago.

In other words, I'm expected to dress up, show up, and shut the fuck up.

Esme and Jasper's mother had some little pow-wow with Alice and they divvied up responsibilities for this little gathering. My task? Wear whatever Esme picks out and ride along with her to whatever country club will be the venue for this shindig. These stupid things are females only, and Alice put her foot down in regard to Jamie, saying even in drag he still had the wrong equipment for one of these things. In other words, I'm stuck with no one to join me in eye-rolling and under-my-breath cussing. I'm also in a dress that appears to be some sort of silk and all kinds of expensive. I'm wearing heels, but I have Chucks in my bag and I'm totes putting them the second no one is looking. I should at least be comfortable at my own half-a- bridal-shower.

I'm standing around trying to not yank on the massive fucking wedgie I have from this damn thong—which Esme insisted would drive Edward wild—when the bakery shows up with the cake boxes. I giggle just a little, knowing what's coming next. They may have tried to keep me uninvolved, but, well, I gotta be me.

Esme rushes over to view firsthand the cakes she ordered, but I make it to mine first, leaving her to watch as Alice and I unbox them. I take the box top off, and Esme gasps in horror.

“Bella, dear, I'm so sorry... I have no idea what happened at the bakery! I'll run back and see if some of the staff here can alter Alice's to include both of your...”

She trails off as she processes what the text on the cake says, and promptly hugs me.

“This is exactly why my son fell in love with you, Bella, and I'm proud to be claiming you as my daughter, if I am a little surprised at your...”

She's sniffling as she walks away, and I give myself a little hug around the middle, knowing this could have gone two ways. After she'd ordered the cake, I'd called to alter her instructions. God bless that Cake Wrecks blog for the inspiration, because it gave me the idea for my cake: black fucking fondant with a frosting uterus and two little zombie ovaries. The text reads “Good luck Bella and Edward! It takes a great man to marry a sterile bride!”

I figure the cake can serve two purposes: fuckawesome icebreaker, as well as get everyone past all the “Aw... you broke a ribbon; you'll pop out another kid” crap during gift opening. Not everyone gets married to make babies, even if the way Alice and Jasper are joined at the giblets every fucking time they are together leads me to believe they plan to cover my thwarted contributions to the human population in addition to their own. Plus, Esme has taken flack for her sterility for years with half these fuckwits. It's about time they move onto the next generation and worry about how Edward will carry on the esteemed Cullen name. Maybe I can suggest he's going to move twin surrogates into our house for baby-making and be like Hef or some shit. Only actually bang the hell out of the girls and knock them up.

Granny Platt sees Esme sniffling into a Manhattan and comes over to investigate. I admit I'm still scared of her, even after all the time we've spent together on the book, so I'm a wee bit nervous about her reaction to the cake. She looks at the cake, then turns her beady little eyes toward me, one eye narrowed in suspicion.

“Who ordered the cake like this, Isabella?”

(She decided a while back that only my full name was acceptable, the old bitch.)

“Well, er, Grandmother... Granny... uh... Trudy... I sort of changed Esme's original order...”

I'm cut off by the sound of her damned mother-of-pearl encrusted cane smacking against the floor repeatedly as her cackle bursts from her.

“Have you seen this?” she shouts. “My god, this family is in for a treat. My grandson is marrying a girl with a spine! She's already telling this family off before she even knows your names!”

With that, all the upper-crust biddies came trotting over to goggle at the cake and stare at me in horror, while Granny Platt cackles like she's stirring a cauldron and Esme sobs hysterically. I may be a little slow, but it's not lost on me that the old bat called Edward her grandson in front of the whole richie crew. It may have taken 23 years to get here, but it has to be better for everyone involved.

Alice, meanwhile, is staring at me like I've grown a second head as she looks at her cake, which is lovely, with three tiers, flowers that match her wedding colors, and piped monograms that I'm sure match the towels she has on her registry. I can tell she's just about to start shaking her head in disapproval when I point a finger at her.

“You thought it was a good idea to have your shower in conjunction with mine, Ms. Perfect Planner. You should know by now that I'm always going to do things my way. Just be glad I didn't let you talk me into bogarting your Disney Princess wedding. It could have gone down exactly like this.”

I can tell she's counting now behind her closed eyelids to keep from strangling me, and it's the perfect time to run off and change my shoes. I'm going to need to be comfortable for the gift thing. Alice and Esme did my registry for me and I have no clue what's on it. They may have taken Edward, but I'm not entirely sure. Here's hoping he knows what half the shit in those foil-wrapped boxes is.

~ E~

Golfing.

Jesus Jack Nicklaus Christ, only my father could have thought it would be a good idea to go golfing at the club while the bridal shower was taking place. He thought it would be some sort of demented male bonding ritual that would dovetail neatly with the end of the shower when I make some token fucking appearance with Jasper to thank a bunch of old, drunken compatriots of Esme's mother for crystal serving dishes in boxes reeking of moth balls they've stored in basements or attics for just such an occasion. I'm starting to wonder if maybe I should have tried harder to get an elopement out of Baby Swan. It has to be better than this.

Even my expected shower appearance pales in comparison to the horror show that this afternoon is going to be. It would have been fine if Carlisle had kept it to me, Jasper, and himself. Mr. Whitlock was smart enough to beg off, citing a recent knee replacement, but my guess is he's home on his sofa praying he'll have an excuse for my wedding. I have no doubt Jasper has filled him in on all recent events.

I could have handled the addition of Emmett, even if he decided to wear the latest in tinfoil headgear. No, Carlisle decided it was high time we got to know Bella's family better, so in addition to Emmett, he invited Jamie, as well as Emmett and Jamie's father.

To be honest, before today, I'd given no thought to whatever may have fathered the insanity tag-team of Jamie and Emmett. Most of Bella's stories center on Mrs. McCarty, or as Baby Swan calls her, Mama McCarty. I assumed she was a single mother.

I stand corrected.

Mr. McCarty (no first name offered) arrives at the club for golf wearing a t-shirt with a flannel shirt over it, and a pair of jeans. I'm fairly certain were he not the guest of Carlisle Cullen, he'd never be allowed near the course. A few polite requests along with some cash must have been exchanged, because none of the club staff even look at him twice. He seems like a very quiet man, nothing at all like either of his sons. He does direct a raised eyebrow at Jamie, a silent comment on what I assume is leftover eyeliner from last night.

He's quiet, that is, until everyone starts drinking. I'm really starting to think that the government had the right idea with Prohibition judging by the impact alcohol has on gatherings that involve my family. In the time since the drinks began flowing, the golfing has become sloppier, the company has become chattier, and I've become steadily more embarrassed. I can only hope the other golfers can't hear the conversation here, which is ranging from circumcision to drag queens to Baby Swan's mother. Who is apparently “hot” but “vapid.” I'm fairly certain both Emmett and his father say “I'd hit that” with regard to her.

Fuck my life.

I've decided that temperance is my only hope at getting through a day when I'm with anyone I'm related to or Baby Swan has even met, so I'm pretty much the designated golf cart driver. I'm also ready to bury myself in a sand trap when Mr. McCarty rounds on me and points his Seagrams (Seagrams!) at me.

“My sons seem to think you are good enough for Isabella, boy, but I remain unconvinced.”

Shit. Emmett emits what can only be classified as a giggle, while Jamie smirks, hand on one jutted hip. Both of them are about to meet up with the wrong end of my sand wedge in a second, but I realize my father is staring at me as well. Fuck.

“Sir, I have to apologize for not asking your permission...”

He's waving me off with his drink, the contents of his glass perilously close to killing sections of the immaculately groomed course.

“I'm not her real father, boy. I think we all know that insufferable pig demon doesn't have the right to give permission for anything when it comes to that girl. What I want to know is whether or not you really deserve to be breathing the same air that she does.”

Right now, I'm betting I look something like Birkin would after a lobotomy: gaping and wide-eyed and struck completely dumb. There's a possibility I'm drooling. I have absolutely no clue what sort of awe- inspiring monologue I'm supposed to come up with here to impress Baby Swan's surrogate father. I do have a feeling if I say the wrong thing, I'm going to get my ass handed to me on the golf course of my parents' club, and Carlisle will sit back with his goddamn Macallan and watch.

“Sir, I know that you must see me as very young, and I can understand your concerns,” I begin. Unfortunately, I make the mistake of looking up at Mr. McCarty, and his eyes are narrowed and his jaw is clenched. I think this is the universal sign for “not going well, dumbass.”

“Look, I love her exactly how she is. Fucked-up clothes, batshit crazy taste in pets, and all. The one thing I want more than anything in this world is to make her happy, and I plan on trying my goddamned best to do that. I don't know what else I'm supposed to say here to make me sound like I deserve her. Truth is I probably don't, but she wants me, and well, I'm going with that.”

Way to go, Edward. I'm sure the verbal vomit with a side of trucker vocabulary just clinched your upcoming ass-beating.

I close my eyes, hoping that the McCarty men decide on fists instead of clubs. I jump like a damn bullfrog when I get a sound clap on my back instead.

“Edward? Welcome to the fucking family,” Mr. McCarty offers. I'm stunned.

“That was all I needed to know; that under that stuffy bullshit you tend to spout off you love our girl. I'll warn you though; she's a handful. I guess you may already know that, huh?”

I'm still in shock, and turn to my father for guidance, but he only raises his glass in a toast. Jasper, naturally, is laughing, and he reaches into his bag and pulls out a bottle of 151.

“I don't know about you men,” he starts, “but I think some spiking of the punch may be in order. Shall we adjourn to the bar and enjoy listening in on the festivities?”  
Emmett and Jamie look at Jasper with relief, gathering up balls and bags and loading them in the cart. I don't think golfing is an activity either one of them care to repeat. Mr. McCarty offers me a hand, and I shake it, giving him my thanks.

“Oh, and Edward? Jesus God, please drop this Mr. McCarty business, will you? The name is Charlie. Use it.”

We head back into the club to see what the women are up to at the shower.

~ B~

My god showers are so fucking boring. As my eyes glaze over, I can barely keep myself from stopping this whole thing to write my parents a thank-you note. To think, by them dumping me on the McCartys, my mother spared me years of awkward family gatherings rife with Pyrex and other boring shit. Rich Kid and I really don't cook, so why, pray tell, do we need a set of springform pans? We do not. I think someone got happy with the little gun thing when they were registering. My bet is Alice.

I thought for a brief second I saw Jasper pop in, and was hoping the men were going to crash this soiree and put me out of my misery... er, join us for a while. Seems I'm bound for disappointment, because there are no men, and Alice and I are still here, taking turns opening gifts while Esme jots down a list of who gave what for later thank-you note writing.

As I watch Alice open a set of knives, I try to force my eyes open. Rosalie, standing next to me with my next gift to be opened, noticed and elbows me in the shoulder and I mumble “Fuck off and get me some damn punch.” I have hopes that the sugar will give me enough of a bump to get through the rest of this fuckery.

Rosalie hurries back so as to not miss the next riveting gift of luggage, and I down the punch, holding out my empty cup for a quick fucking refill.

After my third cup of punch (and my third fucking salad spinner... seriously, does anyone really spin salad? ), I notice the room seems to be getting louder. People were politely whispering over the gifts before, but as the cake gets served (which seems to be mostly Alice's as very few people appear to want zombie uterus cake) and people refill their punch, it's like the wait staff just passed out special brownies or something. I hand off a crystal vase to Rosalie and lean over to Alice.

“Did it just get really fucking loud in here all of a sudden?” Alice has just opened a picture frame and turns to answer me.

“I have no idea, but I'm getting so horny opening these gifts I'm wondering if Jasper would be willing to get his ass in here and consummate our marriage right fucking now.”

Okay, that's simply not right. I'm laughing my ass off, but I know that's not right. Alice is the fucking poster child for behaving in public. Something is really wrong for her to say something like that at her own damn bridal shower.

I look out to the rest of the guests, and my fucking hell they look drunk as fuck. I don't think any of them have hit the bar, though, so I ask Rosalie if they've been drinking.

“Bella, why do you assume that my entire family is a bunch of useless drunks? The only thing anyone has had is punch. Which is essentially juice, ginger ale, and sherbet. Horrible concoction. I don't know why Mother allows something like that. It's so unbelievably middle-class.”

Shit, if that was at my family function, someone would have made an ice cube ring with a Jell-O mold and let it float. Probably with canned fruit frozen in the ice.

Still, that punch seems to have been consumed awfully fast.

I open the next gift, which the card says is from Laurent, and completely lose it. He's given me a service for eight in some silver pattern, including salad forks, shrimp forks, and—Jesus Paul Revere Christ—sporks. Sterling. Silver. Sporks. I swear I'm laughing so hard that snot is going to come out my nose when...

Oh my god, I'm going to puke.

I drop the box of silver the floor with a crash, ignoring the attention of all eyes turning to me as I race for the bathroom. Where is the goddamned thing? I know someone showed me when we arrived. I have my hand over my mouth (like that's going to do a whole lot of fucking good) when I bump into Jasper, who is cackling like a demented witch, peering into the shower from the doorway. I stop for a single unfortunate moment, noting that Charlie and Carlisle are also giggling like schoolgirls next to Mitt-Mitt and Jamie. Rich Kid is there as well, and looks on, appropriately horror-struck, as I vomit unceremoniously all over his best friend's golf shoes.

That'll teach him to spike the fucking punch with a bottle of over-proof rum.

~ E~

I knew it was a bad idea the second I saw Jasper pull the bottle out. Really. I swear that I did. Getting an entire roomful of society matrons and brides-to-be annihilated at the club can't be a good idea under the best of circumstances, but one involving Ermentrude Platt and Baby Swan can only be a certifiable train wreck.

I'm not proved wrong.

As the rest of the men—already lit like Christmas trees after a brunch that consisted mainly of alcohol imbibed in the sun—look on, I can feel the nervousness rising in my stomach. Rosalie brings Baby Swan cup after cup of punch, probably the result of nerves and a dry throat having to thank people for all the ridiculous gifts we are getting. It seems unfair that I'm supposed to enjoy the gifts as well, yet Baby Swan has to get up in front of all these biddies and open gifts and say thank you when she hates being the center of attention like this.

I want to walk in, pick her up, carry her off, and let Grandmother Platt open the gifts for her. I'm sure she'd give a full-on commentary and review of each item, complete with inappropriate drunken story and admonishments that the giver didn't spend enough money.

Obviously, I'm outweighed on the sentiment, as the men continue to laugh as the room gets louder and louder, a sign that the women are getting progressively more inebriated as the level of punch remaining in the bowl recedes.

Baby Swan is not going to be happy when she realizes what's happened.

I peek around Jasper when I hear that her next gift is from Laurent, a curious development seeing as this is a women-only event, and I'm fairly certain no one invited him. I see Baby Swan peering owlishly at the contents of the box and am unable to contain my grin as I see he's gotten her silver... in a pattern that includes sporks.

She begins to laugh, and I hear her real laugh, not the polite tittering she's been employing in some ill-conceived plan to appear more ladylike in front of the shower guests. They need to understand I love this girl exactly as she is.

Of course, as she continues to laugh until she sobs, I process far more quickly than she does that we have entered the danger zone; too much punch plus nerves plus too little food plus cake equals a disaster in the making, and I try in vain to pull Jasper away from the door. I need to get her a clear path to the ladies' room because she's going to hurl. My best man, however, is focused more on laughing at the carnage than actually listening to me, and fights me off, guffawing as Baby Swan drops the box of silver with a loud clatter. I'm still pulling at him as she races toward us, blocked by Jasper in the throes of hysteria.

I'd be lying if I say that I don't take over as laughing idiot as she pukes all over his golf shoes.  
  
She's instantly mortified and apologizing, but I do exactly as I wanted to just a few minutes ago: lift her into my arms and carry her out of the club. It takes only a single look to my father for him to nod; he'll take over on clean-up detail for this mess while I get Baby Swan home.

We're out to the Volvo before she speaks.

“Your entire family must hate me. Jasper must hate me.”

I turn to her and smirk.

“Baby Swan, Jasper got exactly what was coming to him.”

She's still looking a little green, so I try to drive slowly, taking corners at a near crawl, and cranking up the air conditioning for her.

“Edward, I'm so sorry. I mean, I know I was nervous, but I'm not a puker, usually. Why would you ever think he deserved that?”

No, Bella, I'm the one who usually pukes.

“Sweetheart, you realize that Jasper spiked the punch, right?”

She looks at me, gaping.

“He didn't!”

I look at her.

“Bella, he's been hanging out with the McCartys all morning. Did you really think for a second that there wouldn't be some undue influence?”

She drops her head into her hands.

“I'm so sorry. I should have known not to let my family anywhere near yours. What was I thinking? I can't do this! There's no fucking way I can do this!”

Fuck. One damn bridal shower at the club and she doesn't want to marry me? It's like we are back at square one with her thinking we don't belong together.

“Seriously. Edward. We need to rethink this whole wedding thing. Right now. This is never going to work. Ever.”

I'm driving the car, so I can't puke. Besides, Baby Swan already did. Now I'll just seem like a trend- follower. Plus, I'll have to clean my car.

“I know it will disappoint people, but can we not do this?”

Never mind. It isn't as if I've ever been concerned with being considered trendy anyway. I'm going to go right ahead and puke.  
  
“Justice of the peace. Or Elvis impersonator. Or drive-thru. Anything but this huge mess where I'm constantly on edge and my family and your family combine in a personified re-enactment of a bleach- ammonia reaction.”

I'm so relieved that I let out a huge sigh and close my eyes, nearly crashing the car before she screams and I realize driving means my eyes need to stay open.

“Jesus Christ! Are you going to fucking pass out?! We're gonna die here!”

Vegas. We can do this in front of Elvis in Vegas. Or in the damn car in Vegas. I honestly don't care either way, but I'm dreading informing my parents that there will be no huge wedding. We may as well get it over with quickly, and I head in the direction of their house rather than my apartment. This promises to be a fun afternoon.


	32. There's a Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a compromise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Maleficent Knits for the cereal concoction.

I wake up in an unfamiliar bed. I know by the feel of it that I'm not in the ridonkulously comfortable pillow- top at our apartment, and the bed seems smaller. I crack one eye open and see a poster of Carmen Electra next to... Jesus TRS-80 Christ, is that fucking Bill Gates?

There's only one place these two things could be tacked to a wall with that tacky poster goo-crap next to each other without the universe imploding, and that's Rich Kid's room. Specifically, Rich Kid's room at the manse. My brain is totes scrambled, and I'm trying to figure out how I got here and why I'm passed out in a bed Edward has undoubtedly befouled with wank juice. Hmm... does that gross me out or turn me on? I'm trying to decide whether or not it makes me a complete perv to think about adolescent Rich Kid fwapping in here while looking at Bill Gates' picture when the door opens.

It's a sheepish Edward with a bowl of cereal in one hand and a veritable bucket of ice water in the other. He hands me the cereal, then perches on the edge of the bed. I'm so fucking hungry I hoover up a spoonful before I look at it, coughing as I swallow.

“Rich Kid, what the ever loving fuck is in here with the cereal pellets?”

“Uh, Kahlúa? Grandmother said something about 'hair of the dog.'”

God bless Granny, because once I get past the initial shock, this is pretty damn good. I reach for the water, and drain about half the glass before diving back into my bowl of Grape Nuts, improved with the great taste of alcohol.

“So... um... the whole family is here.”

I stop with the spoon still in my mouth, curious enough to abandon all my two smidgens of social graces I possess, to talk around it.

“Ho famwah hoo?”  
  
He gives me that same look Rosalie usually has when she's looking at me, like I'm so gauche I shouldn't be allowed to live, so I swallow and, you know, remove the spoon from my mouth to repeat.

“Whole family who? Exactly?” “Whole family as in McCartys en masse and my family. Including Rosalie. And Grandmother.”

If I wasn't totally awake and hungover before, I sure am now. It must be like Armageddon downstairs. How have I not heard any crashing? Or sirens?

“They'd like you to come downstairs and open the rest of the gifts. I was thinking maybe while they're distracted by bamboo salad tongs, we could sneak the whole Vegas wedding plan by my mother.”

A few more spoonfuls of this glorious breakfast of Lohans and I'm ready to agree to just about anything. Besides, it's not like my family is going to protest a Vegas wedding. It's not as if anyone has a big “Bella's wedding” savings account somewhere. Edward is a boy, so his parents aren't going to care; they have Rosalie, who'll have the big Princess Di bullshit wedding that's expected. Rich Kid is marrying me, a nobody. Carlisle and Esme will probably be happy we're eloping instead of subjecting their friends and co- workers to our brand of fuckery.

We head downstairs hand-in-hand, smiling like loons.

# # #

Three crystal toasting sets, 12 place settings of a china pattern that will look very pretty under takeout Pad Thai, and a fucking mantle clock that would probably be lovely if we actually had a mantle to put it on, and Rich Kid still hasn't said a damn word to his family. Or mine, for that matter.

I let him open the next gift: a fucking salt mill. Why do I need to grind salt? It's not an aromatic spice. Even I know this shit, and I'm like the black hole of cuisine. He mutters something to Esme, who's still dutifully writing all of this gift fuckery down, and I blurt it out.

“We need to send all this shit back. We aren't having a big fucking wedding. We're eloping and we aren't going to invite any of these people who know so little about us that they actually buy us things to cook with, for fuck's sake, and we need to send it back.”

I sit back with a huge sigh of relief. I'm so glad that's over. It's out there and now they know and we can start planning exactly where we're going to go for our elopement. I'm feeling so awesome maybe I'll even consent to some little brunch party—or whatever—when we get back from eloping.

“No, Beauty, you sure as fuck are not eloping.” Trust Jamie to insert his big fucking mouth where it doesn't belong. Today would have been a crushing  
disappointment to us all if he'd just come along and been nice about it.

“Jamie, what the fuck? When are you going to stop trying to tell me what to do? Who the hell died and made you Shirley Fucking Partridge?”

“Beauty, for once, I'm not being a selfish queen,” he argues. “Look around you. Look at the faces of all these people, except for Sir Pussy Whipped over there, who'd do anything you asked him to, including giving you fucking organs and shit. Everyone in this room loves the hell out of you, even that old bitch over there who looks like someone left her in the oven too long. All we want is to be there if you really are bound and determined to hitch yourself to this socially inept walking bank account. Please don't deny us that.”

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

I stare at Rich Kid and he's back to his slack-jawed, drooling idiot look. No help is coming from that camp. Granny Platt's beady little eyes are burning holes in me, and I have to look away. Esme! Esme will be sympathetic. Esme will understand that this isn't us, all this pomp and circumstance.

She doesn't look sympathetic. She looks heartbroken.

Another glance at Edward shows he'll be no help here. I wish, with all my heart right now, that I could have figured out how to put my face in it and be a lesbian, because then I would not be sitting here with my mouth-breathing fiancé and both of our crazy families. I wouldn't be getting lectured by a drag queen. I don't think lesbians ever get lectured by queens without a good taintpunch being offered at the end. They definitely wouldn't feel guilty about running off to get married or punching a queen, right?

There's no way I'm going to look at any of them right now. The floor seems like a great place to look. Rich Kid's family has this fuckawesome antiquey rug that's called something like Autobahn or something, and I admire the pattern and the workmanship that must've gone into making something that lasts this fucking long.

I should have known I would fuck everything up. God knows I always do.

~ E~

I can see the little Hamster of Crazy starting to spin the wheels in Baby Swan's head. She feels she's the one who made a horrible error that everyone will hold against her. She doesn't believe there's any way that this can be fixed. In addition, as much as I know she wants to be independent, and not have people force her into decisions, she is unable to speak up for herself here.

The dryness of my mouth indicates I've undoubtedly been staring like an imbecile, leaving Bella to bear the brunt of this decision. I look at her, staring at the ground like a scolded child, then at the faces around us: my grandmother, the McCartys, and my parents. My decision is made.

“All of you, get out,” I order, shocking the hell out of just about everyone. Bella startles, but her head does not lift, and I look directly at Esme. “Except for my mother. I want the rest of you out of this room, and not pressed up against the door trying to listen. Out. Give the three of us some damned privacy.”

Charlie and his wife skitter off without looking back, Emmett and Rosalie behind them. My sister is staring daggers at me, thank goodness, rather than Baby Swan.

The last thing I need is that brawl heating up again. Jamie and Grandmother bring up the rear, obviously trying to stall for time, hoping to catch even a hint of the conversation they're about to miss.

“OUT!” This time, I fucking bellow.  
  
Now I'm left here with a teary-eyed Esme and a silent, sulking Bella. I must be insane to even attempt this conversation, but I'll be damned if I don't want to marry Baby Swan without everyone in both our lives making her feel like shit for the rest of her life.

“Now the three of us get to talk without outside influences. Baby Swan, I want you to explain to my mother why you wanted to elope.”

She raises her head just enough to glare at me through a damned curtain of hair and, truth be told, it's horror-movie-creepy. I'm slightly shocked that I don't spontaneously bleed from my eye sockets at the glare, but we need to start somewhere.

“Baby Swan?” She makes some type of growling noise before she huffs and addresses her answer to her feet.

“I'm sorry, Bella, but I didn't hear you, although I'm positive your feet find this very interesting. Please tell my mother and I why you want us to elope.”

“I said,” she bites, “that I don't understand why anyone gives a shit anyway. I don't have actual parents to host a wedding, and your family... er, sister, would rather see us rot in hell, for the most part. None of these people know us and it's all hoity-toity and everyone is going to laugh at me!”

She's practically wailing by the end of it, but at least now I understand some of her worries.

“Mother, can you see where we're coming from? All I want is for Bella to be happy. She can't be happy if she's stuffed into a wedding that also makes all the society people happy. Since if she's not happy, I'm not happy, we've felt railroaded into a wedding day where we won't be happy at all. Isn't that supposed to be the real importance? Instead of having a successful society outing for the benefit of the country club set's wagging tongues?”

Esme, to her credit, looks confused.

“You both thought because of the shower that I was going to force my way into planning your wedding for you? Neither of you showed much interest in the shower, and Alice was so determined she knew what was best I just let her have her head. I never dreamed...” She trails off, her mind already jumping ahead of the conversation.

“We don't care what kind of wedding you have. All we want is for you to be happy and share your day with us. I don't care if you hire clowns to make balloon animals.”

Oh sweet baby jebus, please don't give Baby Swan any ideas.

“We'll keep it small,” Esme continues. “We won't invite anyone that isn't necessary. We'll cut down your father's work list and your grandmother's list...”

Baby Swan still hasn't looked up. “Bella? Is that okay with you?”  
  
She gives one infinitesimally small shake of her head, still bent as if the floor is mesmerizing.

I move toward her, but Esme beats me there, wrapping her arms around Bella's slumped shoulders.

“Bella?”

I hear a nearly whispered response that says something about family and money before my mother bursts out laughing.

“Honestly, darling, you think between us and Edward there's anything you could come up with that we couldn't afford?”

More mumbling whispers and shaking of the hair, and her shoulders seem to slump more, if it's even possible. Esme stops laughing and pulls Bella even closer, stroking her hair back from her face as if she were her own daughter. I'm left wondering how often anyone did comfort Baby Swan like this as a child. She doesn't seem to know how to react.

“You are worth every last penny. I'm positive that between us and Edward, it won't even put a dent in things. So long as you plan to include us, your wedding should be, er, true to who you are, I'm willing to bet even my mother would be amenable to footing the bill. Trust me, she has more money than she'll ever be able to spend.”

“I heard that, Esme!”

“Jesus Mata Hari Christ, Old Woman, I told you not to eavesdrop!” I yell, and hear the thud of a Birkin against the door before a scuffle that can only be Laurent shoving Grandmother aside, most likely taking her place at the door himself.

“Are we in agreement, then?” my mother asks. “Money is no object. Do what you like. Simply let us be there. Tell us when to show up and what to wear, and we'll be happy to foot the bill if necessary.”

Baby Swan chokes back a sob before throwing herself into my mother's arms. This may be the most physical affection ever shown in a single day in the Cullen household. God only knows what this wedding will bring.

~ B~

Not even half an hour after my emotastic outburst with Rich Kid's mother, I'm sitting here again with the rest of the gifts, Rosalie, Esme, Mama McCarty, and Granny Platt. I'm letting them open the boxes while I sit my ass on the couch. Rosalie, bless her icy little heart, is sorting gifts into “Things Edward and Bella Might Actually Use” and “Things Edward and Bella Wouldn't Recognize Even with a Manual.” Guess which pile is bigger?

Mama McCarty breaks the near-silence. “So Bella, have you and Edward given any more thought to what you want to do for your wedding?”

I would totes give her the hairy eyeball if I dared, but this is the woman who managed to stay somewhat sane raising Mitt-Mitt and Jamie. She'll clock me upside the head faster than I can squeak out “circus midgets on tricycles as ringbearers,” so I decide to put this off a little.  
  
“We actually haven't talked about anything at all. We'd really thought one of those goth vampire weddings in Vegas would be cool, so the idea of doing it here has us stumped. Unless you know of a vampire JP?”

Yeah, I thought so. Her hand hits the back of my head just hard enough to make me rub it without risking whiplash. She's perfected the technique of never leaving permanent damage.

“Sorry, Mama. You know I'm only kidding. We haven't given any thought to a ceremony or reception or anything. I know we'd like to keep it small, with our closest friends and family. Intimate. Personal.”

Esme sits forward in her chair, flipping through the steno notebook she's been taking gift notes in for a blank page, as if she's about to record any possible idea that pops out of my head for posterity.

Mama, however, is smarter, and has been around us far too long to allow any leeway for fuckery.

“Isabella Marie, listen up. James will not be in drag. He will wear a suit or a tuxedo and he will appear as the goddamned handsome man that he is, as will his date. He will show respect. Your wedding isn't a performance, and I do not want him stealing your spotlight, as you know he would attempt.”

Granny Platt snickers and takes another swig of her drink, which may or may not be rubbing alcohol judging by the overpowering scent.

“As for Emmett, he may go as Rosalie's date. I have every confidence that she can contain him. He may not, however, obtain some Internet ordination to marry you. Nor will you allow him to make any type of speech or reading in a public setting, because you know very well he'll sneak in some crap about the government or aliens and, again, it should be your day. Not a platform for his crazy.”

Rosalie snorts and sits up straighter, pleased with herself for earning Mama's respect. I'm doing all I can to not roll my eyes at this unsolicited lecture disguised as advice.

“My suggestions, therefore, are to allow Jamie to somehow stand up for you, possibly with Alice, and let Emmett walk you down the aisle. We both know Charlie is absolutely no good with that sort of thing, and will either trip you on your way down the aisle or cry like a baby that you're getting married, toss you over his shoulder, and run off back home with you.”

Granny mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “Her version sounds like fun.” I'm bold enough to hiss at her. This is Mama. She took my sorry ass in when my parents flaked, and I'll defend her to Lucifer himself if I have to. Granny is damn near close, but I'm not backing down.

“Mama? Esme? I promise you that we will absolutely tell you what we'd like to do, once we actually get a chance to talk to each other. We walked down here preparing to get married in Vegas, remember? Then you kidnapped me for this girl-bonding extravaganza to make up for whatever estrogen-laced goodness I missed at the shower and the men took off with...

“Oh god. The men. Are alone. Again. Last time, they spiked my punch. What were you thinking letting them go off like this?”

Mama patted my thigh.  
  
“No worries, Bella. Charlie said he didn't get to spend much time talking to Edward this morning after Jasper lured them all inside to crash your shower. I'm sure it's nothing more than a typical 'father of the bride' talk with the prospective groom. Nothing you should worry about.”

Sure. Nothing except Edward being scared out of his wits and running off to Vegas anyway, marrying a showgirl instead of my crazy. I sigh and pick up a box holding an olive oil mister. What the fuck would I need to mist olive oil for, anyway? And why didn't anyone get me a nice fucking coffee grinder? That's something I could actually use.

~ E~

Fuck.

No sooner am I conned into some wedding performance that's sure to frighten me for weeks if Baby Swan is allowed to plan the whole thing, I'm hauled off once again with my father and the McCarty men. This time, there's no Jasper to get everyone drunk and provide a form of distraction, and my father compounds the issue by mentioning the old-school video game systems I may or may not have hacked back in my younger days, and Emmett begs for a chance to play. Carlisle, that rat bastard traitor, takes both the McCarty brothers off to play god only knows what, leaving me alone with Charlie, the father figure. Of the girl I plan to marry. With or without balloon animals.

“So, uh, Edward, what is it exactly that your company does?” I am so very, very fucked. “Well, it's an online social network...” I can tell by the glazed look in his eyes that this means absolutely nothing to him. I try again.

“It's sort of a Web site where people can go and chat with each other, or find each other when they've moved apart.”

“So instead of picking up the phone and calling people and then going out and doing something with them, you talk to them on the computer?”

“Uh.. yes. Pretty much.” “Sounds stupid.” I resist the urge to bang my head into the nearest flat surface. Like my palm.

“I suppose to some people, it is. However, for young people, electronic interaction, ranging from text messaging to social networks, seems preferable to traditional methods of communication. My company merely rode the front of that wave.”

“Huh.”  
  
Shit. That verbal diarrhea was borderline fucking Rain Man. Where the hell is Bella when I need her? Or really, any other human who speaks English and could translate me for Charlie?

“So how do you make money with this stuff? Do you charge people to use it?”

“Uh, well, predominantly through advertising agreements and micropayments. We're really pushing the micropayment model because with the current economy, ad dollars just aren't what they were, and we also find our users are experiencing ad fatigue. Click-thru rates are bottoming out, and many users have employed browser plug-ins to block the appearance of ads, so we're also having trouble keeping up our impressions. With micropayments, it's a much more stable form of income, and I think it's going to be the future of online monetization.”

Wow. I'm guessing that little monologue isn't going to exactly break the ice either. “Edward, can I ask you a question not relating to your company?” “Um, sure?” Way to sound confident there.

“Do you talk to Bella like this? I mean, I know she's smart and all but honestly, I think the girl would be bored to fucking tears.”

I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry at that assessment. I'm pretty sure she would be every bit as bored as he thinks. Then again, she often surprises me.

“Look, Mr., er, Charlie, you and your sons make me very nervous. When I'm nervous I tend to spout the usual propaganda that we tell investors and tech media. I think what you are asking is whether I'll be able to support Baby, er, Bella. The answer to that is yes, I can support her, even if my company tanks tomorrow, which I don't anticipate.”

“What about children?” Ah, there it is, Charlie.

“I'm well aware of Bella's infertility. It's not an issue. If we decide later on that we'd like children, then we'll decide what we'd like to do at that time. My sister is adopted, so that would probably be an option. Right now, however, it's not even on the radar. I want to marry Bella. I'm not at all concerned with having biological children.

“Look, I understand she has a complicated background. Mine isn't as uncomplicated as it may seem at first glance. We may not seem ideally suited, but I've never met anyone more perfect for me. She doesn't take any shit from my family, constantly keeps me on my toes, and has made me fall so fucking head over heels in love with her—please excuse my language—that I can't stand thinking of my life without her in it. It's that simple. I want to marry her, no matter what circus she comes up with, no matter how hard she tries to push me away, because I will never want to be with anyone else like that.”

I hadn't heard my father re-enter, Emmett and James right behind him, until Emmett raised a glass of bourbon, toasting me.  
  
“So say we all. Welcome to the family, Rich Shit.”


	33. There's a Come to Jesus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a come to Jesus.

I am surrounded by fabric swatches, wedding planning books, and hastily scribbled URLs to Web sites, all helpfully provided by my future mother-in-law, my future sister-in-law, and Alice. My laptop is open, but instead of checking my email or writing or harvesting shit on my Placelikehome farm (and boy, is my marijuana field desperately in need of some migrant farm workers), I'm looking at wedding vow suggestions.

Fuck my Cinderella life.

When the hell did I let guilt rule me? Why do I care if Granny Platt is at my wedding? Everyone will be housed anyway; it's not like they'll remember jack shit without prompts from photos they look at later. Which reminds me that I have a list as long as my fucking arm of photographers and videographers I'm supposed to call to interview.

I'm seriously thinking of calling the fucking news stations and asking for the court sketch artist. That shit would be awesome. Just think: a pastel of a drunk Granny Platt going for Jamie's throat. I make a note to call around and find one of those. I'd rather have that than a photograph.

Rich Kid comes home at a little before seven, and I'm still sitting here, surrounded by piles. I must look pretty shell-shocked, because he stalks over to me and drags me up by my elbows, staring at me like I'm an escaped mental patient.

“Baby Swan? Are you okay? Is something wrong with you? Did someone die? Are you dying? Talk to me!”

He's shaking me hard enough to make my teeth rattle when I manage to refocus.

“Rich Kid! Stop! I'm fucking fine! It's all this stuff...”

Suddenly, I feel completely light-headed. It's a good thing he's still hanging on to me, because I swear my fucking knees give out and he holds me up so I don't end up in a heap on the floor.

“Bella? Bella!”

He's shouting, and I shake my head clear of the cobwebs.

“I'm sorry. Really, I am. I know I'm supposed to do all this shit but it's just so overwhelming and I have no idea what to do and I'm supposed to be picking napkin colors and finding environmentally-aware favors for the guests and picking a dress, and...”

No lie, he sits me down and hands me a plastic grocery sack to breathe into. Apparently, I can now start hyperventilating and not be aware of it in the least. I wonder if it's symptomatic of cold feet syndrome.

“Baby Swan, why are we doing this?”

He sighs in frustration and rakes his hands through his hair, making it stand up so he looks absolutely insane, like a mad scientist or crazy professor.

“Uh, we're doing this because I figured out that I love you even when you get all spazimodo and do that hair-pulling thing and look like you do now. I figure if I love you anyway, I should probably spend the rest of my life with you.”

I get the hairy eyeball. I'm guessing he wasn't in the mood for heartfelt expressions of bizarre love. “What I meant was why are we doing this ridiculous Barbie wedding?” This I am completely unsure how to answer. I have no clue either. “Because we are supposed to?”

“See, that's the bullshit here. I come home from work to find you having a fucking panic attack planning a wedding that neither of us wants and neither of us feels comfortable with. Why is that? Why are you letting them run over everything? I thought no one cared what we did as long as we made sure to invite them. What happened to that plan?”

Oops. This is my bad.

“Well, I sort of admitted to your mom and Alice that I had no idea what I wanted, and, well... they thought they'd help me figure that out.”  
  
“And dumping you with piles of books and fabrics and URLs is going to help you figure that out? Or make you feel like you are drowning?”

I think we both have our answer to that one. I shrug, defeated.

He marches across the apartment, grabbing the kitchen garbage can and dragging it to the table, where he pops it open with his foot and sweeps all the wedding crap into it: fabric swatches, books, and Post-Its. Everything gone.

My jaw drops open as I watch this tantrum of his. When everything is in the garbage, he turns back to me and asks, “What do you want? What would make you happy?”

I'm too shocked to register that I'm now going to have to explain to Esme and Rosalie and Alice what happened to all the stuff. I'm also relieved, as if Edward has removed a giant fucking weight from my shoulders.

“I want to marry you in a comfortable dress with our friends and family around us. That is what I want.” “Then Baby Swan, let's figure out how we might do that and have fun with it. Pizza for dinner?”

I shrug at him, waving my hand toward the kitchen dismissively. “Nope. I cooked. You can't smell it?”

He finally registers that the scent of warm something-or-other has penetrated the apartment, and a huge grin appears on his face.

“I smell... fish? Salmon steaks? Mahi-mahi?”

He may have actually dumped his brain in the trash with the wedding planning shit.

“No, Edward. It's fucking tuna noodle casserole. TNC. You honestly think I'd know what fucking mahi-mahi is, much less how to turn it into a dinner?”

I hand him a plate and a bag of open Lay's potato chips.

“For garnish. Sit down and I'll bring out the casserole dish. I picked one up at Sally's just to make this. Your kitchen didn't run to casserole dishes.”

“I'm sure my mother bought an entire set of Le Creuset when I got the apartment.”

I have no idea what the hell Le Creuset is, but if it sounds French, it must be expensive and I don't want to know, so I ignore him and scoop out some TNC.

“Where is this Sally's, by the way? The serving dish looks very retro.”

“Dude, seriously? Salvation Army. Thrift store. Where else would I get a casserole dish?” He spits his dinner all over the table and himself, sputtering. Did I do something wrong?  
  
“You bought someone's used casserole dish?!” Oops. Forgot that only the family silver is allowed to be re-used from generation to generation.

“It's not like I didn't wash it first, Rich Kid. Christ on a budget, you have a lot to learn. Where would you have gotten a new casserole dish?”

He scratches his head for a second before admitting he'd probably have asked Laurent.

We have a wedding to plan together, yet between the two of us, we aren't sure where normal people are supposed to get kitchen shit. We are so incredibly fucked.

~ E~

She's so adorably muddled. Once I get over the idea that I'm eating out of a dish someone used and discarded—only for Baby Swan to buy it again—I comprehend that she cooked an actual dinner, and we are sitting at a table eating it, not sitting on the couch eating out of cartons or boxes. We may not act like actual adults yet, but we are getting there. I finish my dinner and push my chair back, completely content, only to see that she's back to her panicked look again, eating none of her meal.

“Bella?” Her head jerks up to look at me, and I can see the tears and panic swimming in her eyes.

“Look at us!” she bursts out, waving her arms. “We don't even know where the fuck to buy a casserole dish! Who the hell are we to get married? Grown-ups get married! We. Are. Not. Grown-ups.”

She's right, but she's wrong. We are adults. We work and make money and have goals and manage to wash our clothes and keep our apartment clean. Well, we do that last part with the help of maid service, but still, it's done.

“We don't need to know where to buy a casserole dish in order to get married, Bella. Actually, if you think about it, I bet they sell them at Target. I think they sell everything at Target. Don't they?”

“The point is that we don't know. We should know these things. We should have house plants. Or a cat.”

“We have Birkin.”

“Birkin isn't even a cat. We don't have to worry about him escaping the aquarium or biting a guest.”

She's wrong on both points, but I hardly think this is the time to address that. Instead, I focus on the main problem.

“Why do we have to fit some preconceived stereotypical ideal to be considered independent adults? Why do you have to dress a certain way and know where to buy kitchenware and pick out a color for napkins? There's no checklist we have to complete here to say that we're ready. Unless, of course, you're having second thoughts here.”

“No! Oh god, Edward, no. No. No! I want to marry you. I'm wishing we'd stayed with the Vegas plan, though. I feel like we are so out of our depth here. We don't know anything!” “This is about more than a casserole dish and napkin colors, isn't it?” She buries her head in her hands.

“I can't do this. I'm sorry, but I can't. I feel like you complete me in a pathetic chick flick kind of way, but what the fuck are we doing this for? You are a baby. A fucking 23-year-old should not be getting married, much less to a sterile fuck-up like me. You are going to wake up one morning and realize you wanted kids or a sowing-oats period or some shit.

“Do you know that men who marry between the ages of 20 and 24 have the highest rate of divorce in this country? Fucking 38.8 percent of men divorcing got married in that age bracket. This is wrong. This is so very wrong. I need to go home. Fuck! I don't have a home. I have nowhere to go. I'll go to Jamie's, or something. Where are my bags?”

Wow. Maybe I should have stuck with suggesting a color scheme. She's bouncing like a pinball around the apartment gathering things into bags: clothes, books, and I swear several packs of Ramen go in as well.

“Why do you think the worst of me?”

She stops in her tracks.

“No, really. I mean, I understand that you have this constant fear of failure, and making a decision where it ends with the words 'as long as we both shall live' is pretty fucking huge in terms of worrying about failure. Why am I included in that failure, though? Why do you think I'm going to decide I don't want you?”

“The statistics...”

“Fuck the statistics, Bella. Seriously. The statistics also say that the majority of Internet companies will fail, yet mine seems to be doing pretty damn well. I'm not a damned number in a study. I'm a person.”

“I'm not saying...”

“That is exactly what the fuck you are saying here. You are discounting everything. You ignore the fact that nothing has ever felt more right. You close your eyes to the luck of ever meeting each other at all. I tell you time and time again that there is no one who could be more fucking perfect for me, but you worry about age and statistics and fear.

“So yes, maybe you are right. Maybe we shouldn't get married. Don't say that it's because of the fucking planning or the statistics or any other bullshit, though. Say that it's because you are determined, right from the start, that we'll fail. That puts you right back where you were before you met me, and all this work and effort has been for nothing.

“This...” I wave my hand between us. “This is nothing. All that matters is numbers and fear.”

With that, I slam out of the apartment, wondering where the fuck I go now if she decides to let fear rule her life instead of hope. I head for my car, wondering how much time it will take her to think through everything and come to a decision she can stick with.

~ B~

I'm sitting in the middle of the living room floor two hours later. Rich Kid has not come back, and the dinner dishes are exactly where we left them. Half-filled plastic grocery sacks are scattered around the apartment, exactly where I dropped them in my unfinished, panicked attempt to flee.

I drove him away.

The saddest part is, he's right; I'm a self-fulfilling prophesy of fail. I can claim that my own parents' disastrous attempt at marriage and parenting set me up, but I had the McCartys as the opposite example: two people who are absolute polar opposites who've managed to make things work, even with their insane- asylum-crazy children.

Instead of looking to them for inspiration, I look to the bad example and assume I'll follow suit.

Instead of trying to write something for real, I stuck with fanfic, laughing at bad reviews knowing it was only fic, instead of really putting myself out there.

Instead of applying to grad schools with writing programs I might actually want to attend, I stay with the known quantity, even if I am a bad fit.

Since meeting Rich Kid, I quit temping. I fucking wrote something. I sent queries out and chapters out and told Jamie to fuck off and quit demanding 24-hour-a-day attention. I gave my heart to a guy. I lost my virginity. I hosted a dinner party. I got a pet, and, so far, haven't killed it.

I don't blame him for being angry and feeling like I'm shortchanging him at every turn. He's right. I am. I'm so focused on the negative and the what-ifs that I forget to enjoy the 'what's nows.'” I vacillate back and forth between overconfident Baby Swan and shivering ninny Bella so fast I'm probably giving the poor boy whiplash.

The problem is, though, that I've been doing this so fucking long I have no idea how to get out of it. Jesus OCD Christ, failure is a ritual now. I'd probably be better off turning light switches on and off or wiping down door-knobs with antibacterial wipes than I am now: regularly sabotaging my own life.

I don't even know if he'll come back now. He may be sick of me and my constant neuroses and bullshit. Maybe all I'll ever get is an eviction notice from this apartment and I'll go back to the McCartys with my tail between my legs and lessons learned. If he does come back, though, I need to be ready.

I crawl my way over to the garbage and haul out the wedding shit. He may very well tell me to fuck off when he gets back. Either way, I want everything lined up so that for once, I'm actually prepared.

# # #

I wake up from a lovely dream in which I was in a rowboat, a parasol over my shoulder, batting my eyes at the gentleman caller who's taken me for a lovely picnic somewhere near Dick VanDyke's chalk renditions of Mark Ryden paintings. I twirl the parasol flirtatiously, asking questions about things like “prospects” until the motion of the boat on the water lulls me to sleep. Only... it's lulled me awake?  
  
I open my eyes to see that it's pitch dark, not the bright sunshine of afternoon with my lovely suitor, and the boat is still moving, although I seem to be in some sort of hammock, only the hammock has uncomfortable supports. I squirm, trying to roll out of the hammock, only to feel the supports clamp down on me, and I scream.

“Fuck!” I hear before falling to the floor, dumped right on my ass. “Edward?” I ask the dark.

“I was trying to get you to bed without waking you up. You were so exhausted you were snoring like an asthmatic walrus out there.”

“Can I ask how you know what an asthmatic walrus even sounds like?”

“No, you may not, but I can assure you that it sounds like an exhausted girl who's been crying all fucking night over her wedding and her shitty fiancé who has to kick her when she's down.”

“You didn't...”

“I did, and I'm sorry. I know you feel stressed out, and I shouldn't have lashed out at you, even if your fear did hurt my feelings. I can't walk out on you every time you are worried about something; we need to be able to work through that kind of fuckery.”

“But I've been a complete assfuck when it comes to marrying you. You give me everything and I keep holding back. There's this book I read that's sort of reminiscent of that Robert Frost crap about the roads, only the two choices are weddings and funerals in life. I tend to choose the funeral every time.”

“You aren't holding back anything that counts. So maybe you balk at some of the practical shit, but I never doubt that you love me, never question that you want to be with me forever. It's only the real-life crap that seems to keep getting in the way.”

I jump up from the floor and throw myself at him. “I'm sorry. I really am. I do want to marry you. I may panic every other day for the rest of my life, but I  
swear on a stack of Riverside Shakespeares that underneath it all, I want to marry you.”

I lean forward and kiss him gently, but he pulls back. “What the hell is a Riverside Shakespeare?”

~ E~

By now, I've slowly led her back to the bedroom, backing up slowly as we talk. I allow myself one small grin, realizing how unconscious our physical interactions are; even when our brains are scrambled and spouting nonsense, our bodies fall right back into their natural movements.

She's mumbling something about her hatred of tulle and flowers and something called a crash when I gently grasp her face in my hands and kiss her. Baby Swan being, well, Baby Swan, she actually continues trying to talk as I kiss her, which at least keeps her mouth open long enough for me to slide my tongue right in, establishing dominance.

Okay, so maybe I've read a couple of those things on that fanfic site. It's cheesy, and does nothing to describe how amazing it is kissing her, and convincing her to let go of all the stuff rolling around in her head and fall into the moment without saying a single word to her. Nothing about either of us is dominant, and aside from a few fantasies involving, say, one of us tied up, I like that we are equals.

I pull away from her briefly, just to get some of her clothes off, and she's at it again, asking if I care about things like response cards and calligraphers and whether shaped confetti on tables is cheesy or just tacky enough to wrap back around to stylish kitsch.

She's never going to shut up about this today if I don't completely distract her, so I shuck my own clothes while she rambles, then pull her toward me as I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Baby Swan? I don't give a shit about confetti. Or calligraphers.”

I slide her onto my lap, scooting back slightly as she finally—finally—processes that we are both naked.

“Huh?”

Fuck, I love it when her brain shuts right off and she stops talking. It's like we are down to just us, with nothing in the way.

“I don't care what you want to do with the wedding. If you've scrapped every idea that my mother and my sister and Alice shoved at you, I don't mind at all. All I want is for you to be happy. I want to marry you. Right now, however, I want to be inside you. .”

I say this, mind, hoping she's forgotten the balloon animal suggestion. I can just see all of her drag queen friends requesting nothing more than “swords.”

“But your mother...”

“My mother wants us to be happy. I do not want to be thinking about my mother right now, though, if you don't mind.”

She giggles, leaning in and letting me kiss her. Again. This time, though, she's finally 100 percent focused on me, and shifts against me, rocking her hips as our tongues meet. I moan against her mouth as I feel her wetness against me.

Sliding my hands along her thighs, I pull her legs out from under her, wrapping them around my waist before I enter her. She slides down my length with a sigh, and I cross my legs under her, shifting her so that we are wrapped around each other. I move my hands to her hips and rock her against me slowly in tiny movements. Bella rests her head against me, her tongue and lips tracing my jaw.

As slow and gentle as our lovemaking is, you'd think it would take me ages before I begin to lose it, but the feel of her breasts as they slide against my chest, her arms and legs wrapped around me, has me losing it all too quickly. My fingers dig into her hips involuntarily, urging her faster, pressing her harder against me.

“Edward?” she pants.  
  
I can do no more than groan a response. “I do... love you.” “I... uhn,” I manage. “I...” she whimpers.

Our mouths meet again as, for once, we are exactly in sync, whispering nothing meaningful, yet everything important, as we come together. We stay where we are for long moments before toppling over, remaining entwined even as we pull the covers over us and drift off to sleep. She chose the wedding. Literally.


	34. There's a Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a wedding. Duh. It's a fanfic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to delilahlovett for this chapter, whose Tweet inspired Baby Swan and Rich Kid's quirky first dance, and Feisty Y. Beden's hilarious German-opera rendition of the much-overused “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails that makes an appearance at the wedding.

I'm getting ready in Carlisle and Esme's bedroom. Edward, I assume, is upstairs getting ready in his own. Alice is beside me, tsking over what I'm wearing.

“Bella, this isn't very bridal.”

“No, not according to your definition, it is not. However, it is very me. Edward is marrying me, not a fucking Barbie bride. Ergo, I'm dressing like myself.”

As a concession to the traditional wedding bullshit, my 1950s-style halter dress is a white eyelet with a gray bow at the waist. My Chucks, bought new for the day, match the bow. I have no veil, and my bouquet is a clutch of Shasta daisies I plucked out of Esme's garden this morning, tied together with twine Laurent found for me in a drawer.

I'm wearing mascara and lipstick, only as a compromise with Alice. My hair is pulled back on the sides with hair-pins, but is otherwise down. A big bouffant wouldn't be me at all.

Alice is wearing a silver Armani cocktail dress. It doesn't escape my attention that she's more dressed up than I am. I stare daggers at her.

“You know, the matron of honor is supposed to support the bride. Not look dressier than the bride. What the fuck, Alice? This is dress casual, not black tie.”

She can't have missed the emphasis I put on the word matron. Sure, she and Jasper beat us by two measly months, but it's just enough that her title changes for my big day. It may bother her just a little, but she takes off her shoes, leaving her barefoot. It dulls the miniature runway model look she had going just a second ago.

“You're really doing this, Bella. What the fuck are you thinking?” I know I have one of those seriously brain-damaged looks on my face right now, but I don't really care.  
  
“Actually, I'm thinking that I'm the luckiest girl in the whole damn world. That's what the fuck I'm thinking. I walked into an art gallery as a Jamie accessory and walked out to land some kind of soulmate shit that you only hear about in fairy tales.

“Seriously, Alice. I'm a nobody. A nothing. Who happens to be marrying a guy that most chicks would kill for. He's like the blueprint of a perfect man come to life.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Maybe not for you, but for me? You can't tell me I'll find anyone more perfect for me out there, Alice. No fucking way.”

“You certainly won't find a man who puts up with your hillbilly manners and your trucker mouth, no.”

I know that Esme and Mama McCarty are waiting just outside the door, probably holding Rosalie back with a choke chain to keep her from coming in and assaulting me or criticizing my bridal fashion. Alice moves to open the door and let in whatever is out there waiting for us, but I reach for her hand.

“You do think I'm doing the right thing, don't you?” She offers me a smile that's either sad or all-knowing; I'm not sure which.

“Answer one question for me. If I say you aren't doing the right thing, is that going to have any impact at all? Will it change your mind? What would you do differently?”

I think about what she's asking me. If she tells me I should run out of this house right now and never see Edward again, what would I do?

“Not a thing. I'd feel bad you weren't going to be my matron of honor, but I'm sure Jamie would love that fucking dress.”

“Then you should know you are doing exactly the right thing. Fuck what anyone else says, sweetie, and enjoy today. Not everyone can say they got the whole damn fairy tale. You can. Even if it does involve some really drunk people and drag queens. You know how right this is, Bella. It may not seem like you do, but it's really, really right.”

I give her a ferocious hug. This is why she's my matron of honor and not Jamie. She knows exactly how to get me out of my crazy.

“Let's go knock him dead, then, before he can change his mind.”

~ E~

As instructed, I'm standing in my parents' yard wearing a charcoal gray suit. I have absolutely no idea what Baby Swan will be wearing today, and have run through all possible worst-case scenarios, hoping that by imagining ultimate fuckery, I will be able to greet her with a smile. Even if she is wearing a clown suit. Or a fright wig.

I watch Alice come down the short aisle, her feet bare on the grass. I resist the urge to slam my palm into my forehead, knowing Baby Swan had to have talked her out of her shoes. If Alice is barefoot, I can only imagine what Bella's gotten herself up to with wedding attire. Shit, I don't even know what she has James and Emmett doing; for all I know they are both dressed as Vegas showgirls and will dance down the aisle juggling sparklers.

When she emerges from the house,though, I'm stunned. I vaguely register that both James and Emmett flank her, conservatively dressed in suits, but I can't tear my eyes from Bella.

She doesn't look exactly like a bride, but she doesn't look exactly like herself, either. She looks like a fucking angel. Well, an angel who might be at a Reverend Horton Heat show, but an angel nonetheless. She may have put on sneakers with a dress, but she looks demure. There isn't a skeleton or zombie in sight, and her face seems to be glowing.

She's happy. She's happy to be marrying me.

It's obvious from their body language that she's trying to hurry down the aisle to me while James holds her back and Emmett gets dragged along in their wake. I grin, wanting them to hurry as well. As soon as I have her hand in mine, I register that I hear singing. Turning toward the sound, I'm confronted by Baby Swan's chosen vocalist.

“Bella, that's a man singing, isn't it?” I whisper.

“No, Edward. Technically, that's a queen singing. Sunny has a lovely falsetto, doesn't she?”

I'm seriously trying not to yell in front of everyone and failing. People are starting to stare. “Sunny? ”

“Yes, Sunny Dee-Lite. She always wears yellow or orange, bright like the sun. Get it?”

“Bella, she's singing fucking Nine Inch Nails. At our wedding. I know those lyrics.”

She nods enthusiastically. “Yes, Edward, but doesn't 'I want to fuck you like an animal' sound much classier in German?”

My father startles as I whack my forehead with my palm. I'm thinking maybe the Elvis impersonator or the goth wedding chapel with a vampire officiant might have been a better plan all along. Instead, I have a very tall, very dark-skinned drag queen with a neon-orange wig. Of course, the wig matches the lovely burgundy satin evening gown with neon orange marabou trim, so it all ties together. Or something. Still, it sounds like opera, and I assume everyone is suitably impressed with the drag queen singing opera. I simply have to pray that none of my parents' friends speak German.

We turn to the officiant, a judge Mrs. McCarty's worked for as long as Bella can remember. He seems unruffled by the level of strangeness, with a drag queen crooning Nine Inch Nails and a bride wearing Converse. I must be staring at him with a look of curiosity, because he whispers, “At least they didn't dance down the aisle like that YouTube thing, right?”

Great. The judge is as nuts as the rest of the family.  
  
I look at Baby Swan, and she's still beaming. The rest of it just fades away until we get to the vows, which she's insisted we write ourselves. It's all well and good for a writer to come up with that idea, but I'm sweating like a whore in church at the idea of trying to express anything I feel for this woman in words. Much less in front of all these people.

I'm so petrified I actually give consideration to offering a “to be given later” statement and then taking her upstairs to my room. That way I could simultaneously consummate our marriage and show her why I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Something tells me that could go one of two ways. Either she'd kick me right in the balls or she'd invite the guests up to my room to witness my version of promising her my love.

She, however, pulls a piece of paper out of her dress, and I twitch but manage to keep my palm from slapping my forehead again. God forbid the wedding pictures have me with a red handprint on my face.

“Edward, she begins. “From the day we met, when you offered me a ride, coming to my aid like a knight on a white horse...

“Fuck. I can't do this! I can't fucking do this!” she shrieks.

A collective gasp goes up from the assembled guests, and I sense Jasper scooting around me to wrap his arms around Alice, whose knees are buckling. I don't turn my eyes away from Baby Swan, however. Grinning at her, I never doubted for a moment that this would happen.

She continues, “I wrote down all this sappy sweet flowery shit and it's just crap, because it's not me. I can't pin down the second I fell in love with you. What I can tell all these people is that the moment I realized it, I cracked my head open on your fucking piano, and then you took care of me.

“I hope to spend the rest of my life with you, Edward, as equals. I want to grow up with you, not just grow old with you. I want to be able to take care of your cracked-open bits when you come to major realizations. I want us to grow and change, but still have exactly what we have now: this thing that keeps us coming back no matter how many times I pack up my crap in grocery sacks and storm out. I want to still be laughing my ass off with you when we are serious fucking geezers in a nursing home and have no teeth. That is why I want to marry you, and all that sickness and health shit just comes along with it. I fucking love you, Edward Anthony Cullen the Not-Quite-Second. That's all.”

There's an audible sigh of relief from everyone that she didn't bolt, and I'd be lying if I said I'm not wiping a tear or two from my eyes. The piano, and bleeding all over my floor... That's when she realized she was in love with me? That's so us. She may not follow any rules, but she's so damn perfect exactly the way she is. No vows have ever been more heartfelt in the history of wedding ceremonies than her outburst.

The judge nods his head, acknowledging that Bella's verbal diarrhea counts as her vows. Now it's my turn.

~ B~

I'm a total fucking mess. Here I am, in a pretty white dress and new, clean Chucks, and I can't even read my vows, opting instead for the usual stream-of-consciousness ramblings that reveal my lack of filter. I'm scared to even look at him, but I have to, or I need to walk away.  
  
He's... smiling? Christ on a Club cracker, he's even more insane than I am. Now that's fucking saying something. Then he starts his vows.

“Baby Swan, I have to confess I wrote absolutely nothing down. I was hoping like hell we'd get up here and I'd think of something to say when I saw you. My palms are sweating, and I feel like I'm going to pass out because I'm so damn nervous.

“But the thing is? There's nothing I'd rather do than figure out how to tell you why I want to marry you. I may not be able to articulate it all, but from the second you walked into my life, offering me half a sandwich and then demanding I take you for dessert, not one thing has been the same for me. I don't want to ever go back to what I was before you. I didn't even know how lonely I was—how boring my life was— until you started dragging me along with you.

“You've changed me for the better, as well as my family. Everything is brighter. I have a possibly homicidal fish, a constantly emptying bottle of tequila, and a never-ending supply of frozen food products in my freezer. I never want any of that to change. Every morning I can't wait to wake up and see what you will bring to my day, because it's never the same thing twice. And I hope like hell you'll still be surprising me— and loving me—when I'm as old as Grandmother Platt.”

I know at this point I'm supposed to face the judge and do some shit with the rings, but instead, I throw myself at Rich Kid, wrapping my arms around him and just squeezing the hell out of the poor thing. The best part is? He doesn't push me away. Instead, he holds me just as tightly.

“I'm so happy right now, Bella. So unbelievably fucking happy.”

The judge clears his throat pointedly: a sign for us to break it up. I don't even spare him a glance before I pull back the tiniest bit to look at Rich Kid. His eyes are fucking sparkling, and he waggles his eyebrows before meeting me in the middle for a kiss. Okay, we may have gone past the strict definition of church tongue, but hey, it's not like we are in a church here. Alice finally steps forward and grabs my shoulders, pulling me back to physically remove me from Edward's face. Which I may have been sort of attempting to eat.

She stage-whispers, “You aren't supposed to consummate the marriage during the ceremony, you idjit.”

Everyone assembled hears her, but at least they are all familiar with us by now, and they laugh. Laughing guests make my wedding day perfectly mine, and I think Rich Kid knows it by the way he squeezes my hand as we finally face the judge, who's laughing so hard he has a hard time getting through the rest of the ceremony.

Before I know it, we are pronounced Mr. Edward Anthony Cullen and Ms. Bella Swan-Cullen, and we are walking down the aisle in front of smiling people and bright camera flashes. I'm leaving the whole “Mrs. Cullen” business as Esme's sole domain. She totes deserves it, with all she and Big Daddy C have been through, and while she's a little bit misty, I already see her eyeing Rosalie and Emmett, who are holding hands and looking a little rumpled; I think they had a quickie in the bathroom before the ceremony by the look of things.

Everything is moving in such a blur I don't know which end is up. There's a receiving line kind of thing where I'm introduced to a fuckton of people whose names all sound the same. A few glances around show me that Granny Platt has lit into the champagne fountain I thought I'd get to enjoy at some point, but I'm stuck greeting Williams and Nevilles while Granny Platt reaches into her Birkin and fills a goddamned SIGG while I'm shaking hands and smiling.

When the receiving line is done, I'm sure it's time to eat, but first are toasts. I try so hard to pay attention, but I feel Rich Kid's hand in mine, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed that I'm really officially married. Alice's toast has a lovely poem I forget as soon as she's said it, and Jasper tells stories of a Rich Kid I'll never know: a shy man afraid of revealing too much of himself. I don't know that man, so Jasper's toast is quickly forgotten as well, and I'm distracted from my meal when Jamie wrenches an ice bucket away from Granny Platt, who's apparently determined that the SIGG doesn't hold enough volume for her use of the champagne fountain.

See? The court sketch artist would have been a great idea after all.

Before I've even taken a bite of my meal, we are whisked off to the cake-cutting. Edward's eyes light up as we cut into it and he realizes it's a Ben & Jerry's wedding cake, made entirely with Mission to Marzipan.

“Did they make this special just for you?”

“You didn't know Ben & Jerry's would do cakes? Seriously? I'm not the only person who thinks they are a food group all their own, Rich Kid.”

One tiny bit of ice cream later, we are having a first dance, and the guests are shocked first, then amused, as they hear the opening of Beyonce's Single Ladies. I was adamant about this, and it's the only part of planning Rich Kid really got involved in. Our song is just that—ours—and we didn't want to share it with assembled business associates and society matrons and acquaintances. It's private and personal, and I wanted to keep it that way.

What seems like two minutes after our first dance, we are dancing with assigned parents. Then, in a flash, we are bundled off to a waiting limo, where suitcases await. Mine was packed by Rosalie and Esme, since Rich Kid insists our honeymoon will be a surprise.

We climb in after hugs and tears all around. Jamie and Mitt-Mitt good-naturedly slug Edward in the arm, reminding him to take care of their sister. Laurent hugs me and tells me he'll have a whole book of things I can throw in a Crock Pot waiting for me when we get back. Mama McCarty hugs me and tells me to fuck Rich Kid senseless in the plane bathroom to make my first trip out of the country a memorable one. Charlie offers no words at all, just a quick squeeze.

Finally, the door shuts, and we are off for the airport. I breathe a sigh of relief and snuggle into Rich Kid's... my husband's... arms.

~ E~

When I'm actually able to hold Baby Swan in my arms, I'm relieved. It's as if someone has kept oxygen from me all day and is finally allowing me to breathe. She snuggles against me, sighing, but holds out her hand to stare at her rings as if willing herself to believe that we are actually married.  
  
“Where are we going? I think you can give up the surprise now, can't you? Let me guess... your parents own a fucking private island, and we are going there.”

I grin at her ridiculous assumptions. We're rich, but not that rich. “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but we have no islands of our own. To further ruin your dreams, we aren't going anywhere remotely sunny.” “I knew it! You're a vampire and will burst into flames in the sun!” I chuckle, so happy at the idea that I have a lifetime ahead of me of her craziness making me laugh. “No. I planned something I thought you'd enjoy more than laying around on a beach and drinking.” She turns and stares at me. “Obviously, you don't know me very well.”

I wink, but am saved from telling her by our arrival at the airport. It's as we are going through security that she finally gets her answer; we have to hand the tickets over, and the person checking them over notes the location and our clothing, because we haven't changed yet.

“London seems like a strange place for a honeymoon,” she offers.

“London?!” Baby Swan launches herself at me, even as we are supposed to be removing our shoes. “Seriously? You are going to suffer through London for our honeymoon?”

“I looked up that Riverside Shakespeare. I figured you might like going back to where it all started. How did you manage to not end up there for a semester in college anyway? I thought most English Lit majors did that kind of thing.”

Her eyes darken for a moment, and I realize her scholarship probably didn't cover a semester abroad.

I gently nudge her ahead of me to speed through the security check so we can change before our flight. Before I allow her to leave me to change, however, I have to ask.

“Is that okay? I know it's not traditional, but I want to make all your dreams come true, Bella. Jamie mentioned...”

“You asked Jamie where I might want to go on a honeymoon?”

This can go one of two ways, but I answer her honestly.

“I figured there was no one else who'd know all the things from your past that you never got to do.”

I bite my lip, waiting for the inevitable punch that's coming, but she launches herself at me instead, wrapping her legs around my waist.

“I don't need traditional. I just need you. How many other girls are so fucking lucky to have a husband who will take them to get whatever they need, whether it's a Snickers bar or a visit to the Globe, hmm?”

She kisses me soundly before running into the bathroom to change, coming back out in a pair of black sweats and her Drop Dead shirt.  
I grin. That's my wife, and she's not about to change anything about herself just because it's her wedding day.

I wouldn't have it any other way. I take her hand as we walk to our gate, the first step in this new part of our life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... there it is. In its entirety. Thanks to adorablecullens, Feisty Y. Beden, and Ms. Kathy for their beta work on this. 
> 
> I'm no longer writing fic, but you can always see what I'm up to on Twitter (http://www.twitter.com/cyndyaleo or http://www.twitter.com/d0tpark3r depending on whether you want the mishmash or just my rants) or Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/CyndyAleoBooks
> 
> Thanks for reading. Both long ago and now that you're rereading. Or if you're meeting Mr. Horrible for the first time.


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